


What The Frappé?

by BarracudaBarricade



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Coffee-Based Puns, Eventual Keith/Lance (Voltron), Eventual Sex, Genderfluid Pidge | Katie Holt, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Possibly minor Shiro/Matt, Rating May Change, art student lance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 19:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarracudaBarricade/pseuds/BarracudaBarricade
Summary: When Lance, a recently graduated Arts student, gets a job at a coffee shop, he’s dismayed to find that he’s replaced the hot barista he was trying to chat up. Keith is similarly dismayed to find that the hot customer who always tried to chat up his co-worker has replaced her. Obliviousness, pining and sexual tension ensues.





	1. Particularly Short-tampered

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Will be quite British. Maybe a few Douglas Adams / Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy references.

[1 NEW EMAIL]

From: [careers@zarkoscoffee.com](mailto:careers@zarkoscoffee.com)

To: Lance McClain [mclainzgainz@gmail.com]

Subject: Job Application

Date: Aug 29 (1 day ago)

 

Lance ran flat out at Hunk’s chest and bounced off it so hard it he nearly landed on the road and in the path of an oncoming motorbike.

“Darling!” Hunk said by way of greeting.

“Sweetheart!” he gushed back as they began a slow amble down the road, “You’ll never guess.”

“No way. You got the job?”

“Huuunk,” Lance whined and pounded his fists reproachfully on his friend’s arm, “I said you’d _never guess._ ”

Hunk fended Lance off and rubbed his shoulder protectively. “You had an interview on Monday and now it is Friday, it wasn’t a huge leap.”

“Maybe not for you, Mr. First Class Honours, Top of the Year, thank you.” Lance wiggled his eyebrows at him and Hunk reddened.

Clearly to change the topic, Hunk looked him up and down. “Buddy…what _are_ you wearing?” Hunk tried to raise an eyebrow but he’d never been as good as Lance at it and he raised both by accident.

Lance looked down at himself. “Dontcha like it?”

“I love it. I’m just not sure what it is.”

The ‘it’ that Hunk was referring to was an exceptionally long t-shirt made of overlapping panels of black cotton. None of them were sewed together, so it fluttered flirtatiously in the wind. Lance had paired it with jeans, but he was almost eighty percent certain it was a dress.

“It’s high fashion, Hunk.”

“I thought you were an artist, not a dumpster diver?” Hunk said archly, teasing.

“Oh please,” Lance bragged, “You are clearly just jealous.”

Hunk gave him a playful shove. “Which thrift shop did you find it in, dare I ask?”

“Thrift shop!” Lance howled, “It was a perfectly established underground vintage store, thank you.”

“So a thrift shop?” Hunk repeated, yelping as Lance practically jumped on him.

“If it’s on Brick Lane, it’s automatically vintage,” Lance corrected him. “It’s right round the corner from the Zarko’s that was hiring, coincidentally.”

“No way. The one with that pretty girl you go in to make eyes at?”

A dreamy look slid onto Lance’s face. “Yep. You reckon she’ll be training me?”

Hunk snorted. “I should’ve known you weren’t applying for any pure reason. I bet it’ll be that really grumpy bloke who always has to protect her from you.”

He laughed at Lance’s disgruntled expression.

Lance flung his arm up in a swoon, “Anything but that!”

“Tenner says it will.”

Lance seized his outstretched hand in both of his. “Prepare for a win-win situation for Lance.”

“Sweaty.” Hunk pulled a mock grossed-out face and wiped his hand on his shirt. “Nervous?”

Lance inspected his palms, “It’s all lies.” He shot a grin at Hunk. “Never.”

“When do you start?”

“Monday morning.” Lance shot his friend an exultant beam. “So this is my last weekend as a single man before I start raking in all the love propositions as the beautiful but mysterious and emotionally unavailable café worker.” He half-shielded his face and smouldered through his fingers at his best friend.

Hunk nearly choked on his own spit as he laughed.

“Hey!” Lance pouted at him. They paused at the crossing.

“Lance, seriously, mysterious? Buddy, I don’t think you couldn’t be mysterious if you tried. And emotionally unavailable? _Lance…_ ” Hunk looked at him sympathetically, “You have pined after three of the cinema cashiers this week _alone._ ”

Lance pulled a face.

“Beautiful though? Without a doubt.”

Lance blew him a kiss. They dashed across the road as the light came on.

“Shall we grab a smoothie and go and sit in the park?” Hunk peered doubtfully up at the blue sky. “We are seriously running out of summer and we need to make the most of it while it lasts.”

“Sure,” Lance agreed.

They wandered until they found a pop-up juice parlour. “Although seriously,” Lance said with his mouth around the straw, “I can’t wait for Autumn.”

Hunk shot him a disgusted look. “You are from the Caribbean, you barbarian, at least have the decency to act like it.”

“Scarves, Hunk”, Lance reasoned, “Scarves and knitwear.”

“And rain,” sighed Hunk.

“Cute umbrellas! And translucent anoraks that still show off your outfit.” Lance jiggled around happily, his smoothie sloshing about.

They sprawled into an empty bench in the park. A child ran screaming past them in hot pursuit of a panicked-looking chihuahua.

“I dunno, if I could hibernate through British winters, I would,” said Hunk amiably. He leaned back and tilted his head towards the sun. Lance copied him. Despite what he said, summer was still one of his favourite seasons for several reasons: tanning, wearing eye-catching outfits and checking out scantily-clad attractive people, usually all at the same time.

“How’re grad jobs looking, buddy?” Lance asked, sipping delicately on his drink.

Hunk shrugged. “So far, no bite. I just put it some more applications though, so who knows.” He slurped his own.

“Where to?”

“Oh, a few places,” said Hunk breezily, “Google had one going; Bentley, Logitech. The UK Sp…” His voice tailed off and he slurped his smoothie around the last word.

“Sorry,” Lance said pointedly, “Missed that one.”

“UK Space Agency,” mumbled Hunk, and his cup went flying as his best friend suddenly materialised in his lap.

“God _damn it,_ Lance! This is why I didn’t want to tell you until I finished drinking.” He flicked his soaked hand.

“Your first one at Zarko’s is on the house,” Lance said sweetly, “but Hunk, _what?_ Space?! You want to go to space?” _”_

“Not sure you can be making promises like that just yet,” grumbled Hunk, but his wide face was turning ruddy with pleasure. “Yeah, I’ve applied for their technician grad role. You know how I always talked about going and working for NASA as my ‘No.1 Thing’ right? Well if I get this grad job, I’ll be on the way. Not that I’ll get it, probably,” he added self-deprecatingly.

“I’m almost inclined to support that statement.”

Before Hunk’s face even had time to fall, Lance had leaned back and crossed his arms sorrowfully. “I doubt you’ll even want to hang out with little old me anymore once you’re on your way to becoming a _bonafide NASA engineer_.”

“As if you wouldn’t be persuading me to sneak you in every day, Lance, be real.” He was encouraged by Lance’s smile. “Besides, there’s about a nought point nought nought nought _nought_ -“

“Okay, I’ll stop you there,” Lance said.

“Probability of me even getting an interview.” Hunk pursed his mouth ruefully.

“Apply for a lottery ticket and see which you get first.”

Hunk side-eyed him.

“I’m deadly serious!” Lance protested, “This would make a great social experiment!”

Hunk took Lance’s smoothie from him as payment for spilling his drink and took a drag on the straw. He recoiled dramatically. “Lance, did you put _extra_ sugar in this?!”

Lance batted his eyelashes at his friend. “I asked for an extra five teaspoons of honey.”

Hunk passed him the cup back. “One day you’re going to appreciate the finer flavours in life, but today is not that day.”

“If this is about me not liking that extra strong coffee you made…”

Hunk shook his head at him. “Working at a café and can’t even recognise good coffee when it’s made for him.”

Lance mock-shuddered. “So bitter. So unlike my pure, sweet soul.”

Hunk shook his head sombrely. “We lost a good soldier that day. Taken down with four sugars and half a bottle of milk. War is hell.”

“I can only drink things as sweet as me.” Lance gave him a grin full of teeth. “I have to not be able to taste the coffee through the tooth decay.”

“How you even got a job at Zarko’s, I’ll have no idea. The manager last week bought your story about working in the uni café?” Hunk allowed his disbelief to seep into his words.

“Technically I _did_ work in that café for a month,” Lance sniffed.

“Before you broke their brand new–“

Lance made a noise like he was about to interrupt and Hunk ploughed on.

“State-funded Zarko’s coffee machine–“

“That’s–“

“ _And_ ,” Hunk said triumphantly, speaking louder, “It jettisoned hot mocha into the dean’s face.”

“ _Hunk,_ ” Lance whined, dropping his head into his hands, “The injustice of that layoff still pains me.”

“How dare they,” agreed Hunk unconvincingly, “When all you did was seriously maim the head of our university.”

Lance peeked through his fingers with a spreading grin.

Hunk glared at him. “Do _not_ turn that into a pun-”

“I know. The principle.”

Hunk hit him.

 

*

 

Even for Lance, who was not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, the first hour of Monday had been unprecedentedly trying. An autumn storm – cold and windy and set to last throughout the day – had descended in the night, and was going about its business to flood gutters and play havoc with transport routes with apparently some relish. Lance had queued for the tubes for twenty five minutes before the overhead speaker announced that the lines were flooded and there were delays of forty minutes – enough time that Lance would arrive late. Determined that was not going to happen, he raced to the nearest bus stop and hopped impatiently on each foot as the rain steadily soaked into hood. The bus he caught dropped him outside London Liverpool Street station, and he hurried through the streets, dodging breakaway umbrellas and the brown arches of water being kicked up by impatient traffic.

 

Crowned by its purple logo, like a thorny cross, the Zarko’s otherwise blended into the rest of the street this early on such a dreary morning. Eager to get out of the insistent downpour, he grabbed for the handle on the door as soon as he reached the café’s entrance. It was locked. He rapped urgently on the glass just as a truck moved away from the curb behind him. It send what felt like a medium-size tidal wave of murky water up his calves and down into his socks.

“Oh, you ass!” He leaped back, but not far enough. The truck’s last set of wheels churned through the same puddle and soaked his front. The water found its way eagerly through the lace holes on his shoes.

“So…” said a voice behind him, “You must be the new guy.”

Lance turned with some apparent residual hope despite the gruffness of the voice, because he felt his spirits plummet even further as he looked not into the face of the beautiful girl, but an altogether surlier one.

“Hi,” he said glumly.

The man in the doorway had long dark hair that was curling around his jaw, possibly from the damp, and expressive black brows that were currently pinched together like angry little mice. Lance suspected it was from the gruesome weather, but he could have sworn that the stranger’s face had spasmed in a constipated manner when he turned around. He took in Lance’s dripping legs and increasingly sodden-looking hood with a face that did not look best pleased.

“You’d better come in.” It was said with a grimace.

Lance looked around at where his jeans darkened below the thigh. “I suppose I’d better.”

“Did you bring spare clothes?”

“I did not, acere, no, I’m afraid.”

“Right. I should have guessed.”

Lance tried to stamp down the petulant spark of anger in his gut. It was too early and he was too wet for this. “Couldn’t have unlocked the door for me a bit earlier, no?”

“Had you worked in a café like you said you had, you would have gone round to the back entrance when the front was locked,” the stranger said irritably. A few heavy drops of rain fell from the logo overhead and landed on his fringe; with an even darker expression he pushed it away with his hand.

“That was a university café, so there was no back entrance.” Lance shifted his weight onto his other foot and felt the water pool out of his sole like a sponge. “Can we stop talking about back entrances now, and get out of the rain?”

The man in the doorway flushed and retreated inside, grumbling unintelligibly. He disappeared through a door marked _Staff_ as Lance waited, dripping unpleasantly on the front mat. He returned with a purple bundle, and thrust it at Lance’s chest.

“My instructions say you’re a medium? Here. Go and change into your uniform and assemble back here.” He stomped behind the counter.

“Assemble, what am I – flat pack furniture?” Lance muttered under his breath, dithering as he tried to work out the quickest route without soaking the place.

The dark-haired man looked up when Lance didn’t move. “We haven’t got all day.”

“I don’t want to get water everywhere,” Lance said reasonably.

The man narrowed his eyes. “I have a mop. You’re already late and you’re wasting time.”

Lance was struck with an uncharacteristic flash of temper. _Well then._ Lance could show him wasting time. He made sure to zig-zag to get the maximum amount he could out of his water-logged shoes. He heard his co-worker heave a sigh from behind him as he ducked into the bathroom, stripped his top off and pulled on the purple shirt. He looked at his reflection, yellowish under the fluorescent light. Already, his brief spark of anger was fading.

“Not cool, man,” he chided himself under his breath. There were no trousers, so he wrapped the apron gingerly around his waist and trudged back out. The man was sliding a well-used looking mop along the floor. His face was curiously flushed.

“Hey, so-” Lance began, but he was swiftly cut off.

“I don’t want to hear it,” the man snapped. He half threw the mop back into the store cupboard and avoided looking directly at Lance. “How about don’t make my life more difficult for me.”

Lance dropped his eyes, abashed. _Well._ Good going, Lance.

“Look man, I- That was uncool of me. I’m sorry, I-”

His fumbled apology was only met with a scowl.

“I don’t want your apologies, I want you to not fuck up your job and land management on my ass.”

Lance didn’t retaliate, figuring he’d already done enough damage with his Monday Mood.

“Where _is_ the manager? The guy who interviewed me, Shiro-something?” He looked around, as if he was going to spring out from behind the cash machine.

“Conveniently not here.”

In that tone of voice, it sounded as if he’d done away with him. Maybe he should go and search the back rooms for a body.

Some of that thought process appeared to have bled into the expression on his face, because his co-worker grudgingly elaborated.

“He was at a weekend training course in Germany but there was a problem with flights. He won’t be here until tomorrow, which leaves _me_ to deal with to deal with _you._ ” He was starting to look green at the very thought. They both paused awkwardly.

After a moment, the man said haltingly, “It’s Lars, isn’t it?”

Lance felt like this might be the time to win back brownie points. He affixed his Most Winning Smile™. “The name’s _Lance_.”

If anything, his cavalier attitude had the least desired effect. An expression like he was going to vomit passed over the other man’s face. “I’m Keith.” It was said through gritted teeth.

Lance smiled awkwardly. “Nice to meet you…Keith.”

Those dark eyes travelled the length of him. They stopped at his shoes, which were still leaving damp footprints. “You seriously have no spare socks?”

“Trust me, if I had spare socks, spare anything in fact, I would be in them by now.”

“What size feet are you?” Keith asked reluctantly.

“Thirteen.”

Keith scoffed. “None of my mine would fit your giant feet anyway.”

They were still on for brownie points. “Well you know what they say about giant feet.” Lance gave an exaggerated wink. Keith’s face froze over faster than the arctic tundra. “Giant…socks,” he finished weakly. Damn. This wasn’t working.

“Let me show you how to use the machine,” Keith said brusquely, turning away.

He ran through the various knobs and dials of the machine on the counter in a monotone, showing Lance how to fill the small silver basket with coffee and tamp it down, inserting into the machine.

“And voila.” He held out the mug of steaming black coffee to Lance. “Pretty simple.”

Lance took the mug and held it. The warmth spread into his fingers.

“We get free drinks on the job. You can have that o-”

“Ah!” Lance interrupted him, slamming the coffee mug down so fast that it slopped over the edge. Keith frowned down at the stain. Lance looked down at his pink palms. It had gone from pleasantly warm to something on the torture scale quite quickly.

“Are you not going to drink it?” Keith asked after a moment.

 _I don’t really like coffee_ , said Lance’s brain at the same time as his mouth took over and said, “I like it with milk and sugar.”

He thought he heard Keith mutter something like “Heathen…” but frankly was too relieved that he hadn’t confessed to his damn co-worker at the damn coffee shop that he didn’t like coffee.

Hastily, he poured three bags of sugar and a healthy splash of milk into the cup and tried not to grimace as Keith talked him through the till, showing him how to ring up orders and hand over money.

“Make sure you take out the change before you place their money in,” he advised, “Otherwise-” He looked on the verge of sharing an anecdote, and then seemed to decide better of it. “Let’s run through health and safety, and customer satisfaction and then we’ll do the most basic drinks.”

By the time 6 A.M. neared, almost an hour later, Lance already felt as if someone had tied little weights to his upper lids. He nodded absently as Keith swirled foam on top of a cappuccino and shot hurried little glances at the clock.

Lance followed his eyes. They were due to open in fifteen minutes. Keith’s instruction had been a little all over the place; he’d moved erratically between teaching Lance how to make individual menu items to till and counter use before spending a good five minutes making sure Lance knew the most efficient way to wipe a table down. As he watched, Keith swiped an arm over his forehead.

“Anything you want recapping before we open? We’re understaffed as it is without something happening with the equipment.” He looked pained. “We couldn’t get anyone in at such short notice, and it being your first day…”

“Chill.” Lance noticed that the paleness of his face made his dark eyes look twice their size. “It’ll be fine.”

Keith looked distinctly un-reassured, and that strange nauseous expression passed over his face again.

“We’ll open soon,” he said shortly.

Every time it seemed like he’d taken one step forward with this guy, he said something that took them two steps back again. He scrambled for something that they could bond over before they launched right into service. “Could you talk me through the frother wand business again?”

Keith looked blank. “The what?”

“You know, the-” He pointed.

“The steam arm?” Keith said, following his finger. “Well, firstly it’s called a steam arm.”

The words were jokey, the tone was not. Lance floundered again as Keith walked him through it, explaining the difference between foaming the milk and texturing it. Lance, having thought he’d got it in Keith’s first walkthrough, realised he must not have been paying attention at all. When he thought Keith’s attention was distracted, he got out his phone and shot a quick message to Hunk.

**Lance**

[5:51] Well this could not be going any worse (ಥ﹏ಥ)

 

“We have a strict no-phones policy in the shop.”

 _Crap._ Lance stuck his phone back in his pocket, took in the glare.

“Sorry, I just had to reassure my mother,” he lied.

Keith’s frown didn’t budge. “You still live with your parents?”

“No, but what’s it to you if I do?” Lance retorted hotly. “Familial respect is important.”

He cursed at himself as his co-worker turned silently away. He needed to ease up on the attitude. Maybe it would be better once his socks were dry.

There was an uncomfortable pause before Keith spoke.

“Whatever. Don’t let me see that phone again.” He went to go and unlock the door.

Quickly, Lance whipped it back out again.

 

**Lance**

[5:54] I lied. It got worse.

 

*

 

The morning had not gone especially well. While Lance personally felt that he had nailed the cheery disposition necessary for dealing with the myriad of drenched, disgruntled-looking customers traipsing in out of the rain, that was where the pros ended. He had rung up several wrong orders already and once miscounted out change, a mistake that luckily had been swooped on by Keith. Lance was beginning to suspect he had a third eye hidden somewhere in his unfashionably long hair. He’d made a total of two Americanos, at an agonisingly slow speed, while Keith hared around behind him throwing hazelnut shots into takeaway cups and flinging out orders like a Greek deity of caffeine. Occasionally he’d swing past Lance and hiss, “This isn’t even our busiest time,” which Lance found half-threatening and half-terrifying. The orders hadn’t stopped all morning; he dreaded to think what the _busiest time_ could look like.

“Welcome to Zarko’s!” he exclaimed as a gust of wet wind carried in another customer, a little old woman, bent over from the rain. She joined the back of the queue. Lance finished ringing up the drinks for the couple in front of her and she moved to take their place.

“What can I get for you, beautiful?”

She placed her handbag on the counter and batted him away coquettishly. “Stop that now,” she said in a thin voice, “There’s only so much an old lady can take.”

He laughed delightedly and dutifully read out the menu items upon her request. She barely stood taller than the counter, still huddled from the cold. He flirted shamelessly with her as she put an order in for a large cup of tea.

“Can I take a name?”

“Louise. Gosh, first name terms already.” Her wrinkled cheeks dimpled at him.

He wrote her name down on her drink order and surrounded it with hearts, winking at her as he did. She tottered over to a seat with a blush when Keith handed her drink over.

Lance was grinning, half at the interaction, half at the fact there was now no queue. He looked over at Keith, fully prepared to share his improved mood with someone else – his jeans were dry, his feet were drying, and he hadn’t mucked up an order in over half an hour – to see Keith staring a hole in his back, his brow slightly furrowed. Lance’s throat went dry. Was there anything he couldn’t do to annoy this guy?

“Lance, can you go and get more coffee beans from the back,” he said tersely.

Lance scarpered.

 

The room behind the café was cool, and smelled pungently of coffee. Lance grabbed a bag, tucked it under his arm and, after a furtive look around, retrieved his phone.

It had been buzzing throughout the morning but Lance had been too scared (and busy) to try and look at it; now he saw that he had six messages and a missed call from Hunk.

 

**Hunk**

[9:42] Buddy, hang in there. I’m sure it will be okay.

[9:47] What can even happen in 3 mins to make a situation worse?

[9:50] I’m honestly surprised you were even alive at that time, r you okay?

[10:23] Lance?

 

[MISSED CALL]

 

[11:01] Either your phone is dead or you’ve been ground into Lance-flavoured coffee beans and are being exploited by the corporate coffee overlords.

[12:13] Lance, I s2g, you gotta answer me or I’m coming in there and ordering the most difficult drink on the menu from you

 

Lance glanced at the time. It was just gone one. He text back a hasty response.

 

**Lance**

[13:02] I’M ALIVE, ALL FINE, ALL ALIVE, NO NEED TO COME IN

[13:02] No phones allowed on the job. I have to get back now but it’s terrible, I am terrible, don’t come in. Meet later to discuss?

 

He was about to stuff it back in his pocket when it buzzed. Had Hunk just been sitting over his phone waiting for a response? Bless him.

“Sure thing, darling.” Lance predicted, and turned the screen on.

 

**Hunk**

[13:03] Sure thing darling ♥ stay strong

 

**Lance**

[13:03] (☞ຈل͜ຈ)☞

 

Lance smiled, and re-entered the coffee shop. The first thing he saw was the small queue that was forming in front of the till, the second was the murder in Keith’s eyes.

He grabbed the beans from Lance’s arms. “Ring up the orders. Go.” He dumped the beans into the grinder.

Flustered, Lance smiled at the customer. “Sorry about the wait there,” he said contritely. “What can I do you for?”

 

*

 

Most of the afternoon passed in a flurry of orders and Lance repeatedly mopping the murky sludge that seemed to emerge in the entrance every time he turned his back. Louise returned for another cup of tea and Lance drew a flock of little swallows around her name. She left with a wheezy cough and a wave in his direction.

The café was pleasantly cosy hunkered down in the rain on a day like today. Every Zarko’s Lance had been in had a similar style, and this one was no exception; lots of dark polished wood and artfully placed black strips, filled with squishy red and plum-coloured couches and pouffes. The light morphed from bright spotlights over the counter into dim lamps and other assorted ambient-lighting further in. A couple had commandeered Lance and Hunk’s favourite nook and were cooing at each other over their shared red velvet muffin. Lance almost asked whether anyone had been caught canoodling in that particular nook (because if so, he and Hunk would have to have a good long think about their life choices), but for all the warmness of the café, there was a waft of frigidity behind the counter.

 

He wasn’t sure if it was him, or whether he was just turning a hint paranoid, but he seemed to be intercepting some unwarranted glares from his co-worker. As he rung up two ‘everything-on-top’ hot chocolates for a pair of giggling college girls in bright floral Macintoshes, he caught sight of Keith’s thunderous scowl and what Lance considered a pretty violent shake of the whipped cream bottle, all things withstanding. Privately, he wondered if his customer service face was lacking. It _was_ his first food industry job after all. Keen not to get reported as soon as the manager returned, he upped his game with the next customers.  He joked with two worn-out looking students who took their triple shot coffees gloomily back out into the rain and exchanged some rapid fire Spanish with a dour-looking woman with a Gibraltar brooch pinned to her jacket. A curvaceous woman stepped up to the counter in a long red coat and put in an extensive order; lots of soys and almond milks and double-flavoured-shot-skinny business. He rattled them off dutifully to Keith, who took the information looking far less frazzled than Lance would in his position. He twinkled at her as she dropped some coins into the tip jar on the counter and she gave him a quick quirk of bright red lips.

All in all, Lance felt like he wasn’t doing a completely terrible job.

That was, until he looked at Keith, and Keith’s face looked as though someone had put cottage cheese in his underwear.

“You okay there, partner?” he asked cautiously, as if Keith were a wild animal that had wandered into his garage. Keith placed the drinks into a carry carton in front of the woman and gave her a hostile smile as she left.

“Need a piss.” Keith hit the coffee case hard over the bin so that the used puck dropped out. “Be five minutes.” And he left Lance alone.

Never before had he felt more like a deer in the path of a train. He looked up to see the next customer approaching the till.

“Large Americano with almond milk and an extra shot of coffee to go please.”

“Ah-hh,” said Lance sagely, and battled to recover. “Hot or iced?”

The man looked outside and then back at him with an incredulous expression. “Hot.”

Lance fumbled on the till. “That’ll be £6.20.”

The astonished expression was morphing into outrage. “Are you serious?”

It did sound a bit high. He looked down to see that he’d entered it twice. “No, shi-, uh, sorry. That’ll be £3.10.”

He handed the man his change and stood hesitantly in front of the machine. Coffee in the basket first. He tamped it down gently, shook it to see if it moved, and then pressed a bit harder. He thought he heard the customer sigh behind him. He filled the cup, thinking it looked fine. He slugged milk into the cup, popped a lid on it, and bit back a heaving sigh.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot to take your name,” he said, handing the cup to the man brightly.

“What milk did you put in that?” He got by way of response.

“Semi-skimmed.” He gasped. “You wanted almond.”

“Yes I did.” The customer’s foot was tapping on the wet floor, lifting with a _shluck_ sound that reminded Lance that he needed to mop again.

“My apologies, let me remake that.”

His hands were shaking a tiny bit as he knocked out the coffee and then re-tamped it, put it through the machine and added almond milk this time. He handed it to the customer, who took a melodramatic sip.

“This is far too weak, and half of it is milk!” he said angrily, “I can barely taste coffee. Did you put my extra shot in? Where is the other guy? I want the coffee remade by someone else.”

“He, ah… He’ll be right back if you don’t mind waiting.” Lance cast a desperate look around at the other customers. “I’m very sorry, sir.”

“Sorry? _Sorry?!_ This is probably the worst coffee I’ve ever had from here! You very well ought to give me a refund or a voucher for a free drink.” His voice was rising, his face turning a mottled red. “That’s it, I want a voucher!”

The atmosphere in the café had suddenly become hushed, and Lance was keenly aware for the first time today that there was no music playing. He stood in the silence and suffocated.

“What’s the problem?”

Almost fainting with gratitude at the sound of Keith’s voice, he turned with a plea for help in his eyes. The customer said something about his incompetence, but all he saw was his co-worker’s dismissive hand gesture. “Go sort the next customers, I’ll handle this.”

His insides feeling like they had been plunged into cold water, he returned to the queue, hearing the murmurs and feeling wretched.

“Don’t worry, dearie,” said the lady at the front and he smiled faintly, “Some people are like that. I’ll just take a filter black.”

He didn’t hear Keith’s quiet refusal to give the customer a refund or voucher, nor his assertion that his co-worker wasn’t awful, just new, and went to miserably mop the floor.

 

-

 

As soon as Lance trudged out into the rain that evening, Keith locked up, ran a cloth over the equipment and the tables Lance had already cleaned, and then went into the back and sat down on the floor. He put his head into his hands.

“ _What_ is your problem?” he asked himself viciously.

 

-

 

“So?” Hunk asked when Lance crash-landed into one of his beanbags in the flat-share apartment. “How bad was it actually?”

Lance groaned into the beans instead of responding.

“Oh dear.” He proffered a bag of Skittles. “I got tropical. Your favourite!”

Trying not to look pleased, Lance took a handful, sorted all the blue ones out and poured the rest back in.

“Ew, now they’ve had your sweaty coffee hands over them.” Hunk peered into the bag and picked out a yellow.

“Bluesh my favourite,” Lance said thickly.

Hunk gave him his most motherly look of disapproval. “Did you really have to eat the whole handful at once?”

Lance nodded, his teeth sticky.

“So?” Hunk said again.

Lance dropped his head again. “Honestly, the last few hours were a haze, I was just so eager to leave and go and lie down in the rain.”

Hunk pulled a plate off his desk and began sorting the blue skittles onto them. He made a vacant hand movement to say ‘ _go on…’_

Lance threw sweets into his mouth with quick flicks of his thumb as he filled Hunk in on his bad introduction to his co-worker, the mishaps throughout the day, the awful customer, and just how much he thought Keith seemed to hate him.

“And to top it off!” he said, throwing more Skittles in the direction of his face, “I am actually appalling at making coffee.”

“Now come on-”

“No, Hunk.” He sighed dispiritedly, “Like, _really_ bad.”

“How bad is that?”

“Bad enough that I made three drinks today and basically screwed them all.”

Lance flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. An electronic mobile of the solar-system that Hunk had engineered and Lance had painted for one of Hunk’s university projects hung over the bed. The moons were all orbiting at erratic times and all of Jupiter’s had stopped; clearly the battery was going. The rest of the room was filled to bursting with boxes of notes and stationary, maths equipment, folders and partially dismantled robots. Hunk’s desk was similarly littered with sheaves of graph paper and mechanical pencils. It was the last month of their tenancy and he was starting to pack up to move back home to Kent.

“Well,” said Hunk in a bright tone, “It is only the first day. Didn’t you say the manager would be in tomorrow?” (Lance nodded.) “Well maybe he can sort him, y’know, visible deterrent kinda thing.”

Excusing himself quickly, Hunk left to go and ‘retrieve more provisions’. Lance folded a sheet of graph paper into an aeroplane and promptly crashed it into the window.

“Tadah!” Hunk returned with a plate of warm pastry which he thrust under Lance’s nose. “Pizza pastries!”

“Oh my god, you majestic beast.” Lance stuffed one into his mouth with one hand and took another in the same movement.

“Say, your co-worker, has he got dark hair? He’s not the one with the..?” Hunk waved his hand around his face vaguely.

“The wh-?” Lance tried to say and exhaled pastry everywhere.

“Do you want me to get ants?” Hunk swept the crumbs into a neat pile amiably.

Lance swallowed. “ _Because that’s how you get ants!_ ” He popped the second pastry in his mouth, more carefully this time. “He has dark hair, yeah, but what did you mean by…” He mimicked Hunk’s gesture.

“You know.” Hunk did it again. He fluttered his fingers in front of his face like he had a Spanish fan. “You know?”

Lance gave him a blank look. “I really don’t.”

“Oh. Never mind then. You wanna watch MythBusters?”

Lance grinned. “ _Do_ I?!”

As Hunk flicked to the channel on his tiny TV, he turned to Lance with a spreading grin. “Is this a bad time to remind you that you owe me ten?” He laughed at Lance’s groan.

 

*

 

Despite vacating Hunk’s floor at a reasonable time and getting into bed before 11 o’clock, Lance awoke at 4:30 in the morning to the screaming of his alarm feeling like someone had poured sand into his eyeballs.

“Mmphrrgh,” he said conversationally to his alarm clock, and dragged himself out of bed.

This time, when he tried the door of Zarko’s and found it locked, he went around the back of the building and tried the door there. Keith was in already, retrieving milk from the industrial-sized fridge.

“Oh look, it _can_ learn,” he said with a smirk.

Lance did his best to look expressionless and went into the bathroom to change. When he entered the café, it was to see his interviewer there; an older man, his hair shot through with grey and a puckered scar across his nose that was a shade darker than his skin.

“Hello Lance, good to see you again.” He held out his hand and gave Lance such a firm shake that he thought he was going to break his forearm off.

“Shiro, right? It’s good to see you too!”

“I have to apologise for not being present on your first day. Keith tells me you’ve had some basic training on drinks, and you’re perfectly capable of handling the till, does this sound about right?”

“Er,” Lance said articulately. The sheer thought that Keith, with his face like he’d just been forced to lick marmite off Lance’s shoe, hadn’t run to the manager with a wealth of stories about him was a difficult one to comprehend.

“So what I’m thinking is, Keith and I will work together on drinks while you handle customers – it was very unfair for your first day to be so understaffed – and when there’s a lull in customers, we’ll have you make drinks under our supervision.”

He said this all very crisply. Lance half expected him to salute at the end.

“Sounds good,” he agreed cheerily. Already he was feeling more comfortable. All he needed to do to make this go smoothly was to avoid further skirmishes with his cantankerous co-worker.

 

 

Keith was pressing his face against the fridge, his hands going numb from clutching the cold milk bottles.

“It,” he hissed to himself, _“It?!_ Really! _It_ can learn?”

“Keith are you still in here?”

He hastily stood up and rubbed away the smudge his forehead had left on the fridge. “Yeah, Shiro, back here.”

Shiro stuck his head around the shelf of coffee beans. “Quick brief in the front?”

“Sure. Coming.”

When he joined them, Shiro was chuckling at something Lance had said. Keith ignored them both and threw the milk into the small fridge below the espresso machine.

“So, Lance, how was your first day? Did you feel everything went okay?”

“Perhaps not a _total_ success,” Lance said jokingly. Keith maintained eye contact with his shoes. “More like a work-in-progress.”

“We can work with that,” said Shiro’s voice, “Keith do you agree?”

Keith made an agreeable _‘hngrgh’_ sound. He felt, rather than saw, their eyes on him.

“So, Lance, we’ll take it slow, and you come to us with any questions. Try and not let difficult customers get to you too much; Keith and I can pick up the slack there.”

Lance gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Unfortunately I’m not the No. 1 barrister yet but-”

Keith snorted before he could stop himself. Realising what he’d done, he jerked his head up to meet Lance’s big blank blue eyes.

“A barrister is a _lawyer_ ,” he explained quickly, “We’re baristas.”

Lance gave an easy shrug. “That’s what I meant.”

Shiro was looking between them.

“How much getting to know each other did we do yesterday, team?” he said easily.

Lance’s mouth flapped open and closed again.

“We were a little too short-staffed for socialising yesterday, Shiro,” Keith said more waspishly than he intended. Recognising the look in his boss’ eyes, the spark that signalled an appalling idea was growing, Keith scarpered into the back with a strangled “I’ll start the coffee grinding” before they found themselves throwing a beanbag to each other and talking about their feelings.

 

Lance took down the last of the chairs in the back of the café and slid them under a table. He cast a furtive look at Shiro’s back as he fussed with the machines behind the counter.

“ _A barrister is a lawyer,_ ” he mimicked, pursing his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows just like Keith had done, “We’re _baristas_ , and I’m _Keith_ and I like _chupar verga_ because I,” he gestured expressively at a piece of artwork, “Am a _pendejo._ ”

“Lance,” Shiro called.

He winced. His manager’s back was still turned, and he wondered how much he’d heard.

“Would you come over here when you’re done?”

“Sounds just like my mother,” he said under his breath, and felt immediately abashed. That was nothing short of an insult to Shiro; his mother was far shriller. “Yes, boss?” he said a little louder.

Shiro turned with a smile. “You can just call me Shiro, Lance.”

“Sure thing, boss.” But he quirked his lips to show that he was joking.

“Keith gave you a tutorial on the drinks yesterday, right?” Shiro waited for a nod before continuing. “Well, could you make me a cappuccino so that I can assess your skill?”

“Sure thing,” Lance said easily, “Sí claro. Sure, sure, sure, sí, sí.”

Shiro moved behind the counter. He leant over it, clearly trying to imitate an impatient customer. He was a little too tall to rest his elbow comfortably, and the end result was an awkward twist in his back. Nevertheless, his voice was confident and deep when he spoke. “Semi-skim cappuccino to stay in please.”

Lance moved to the coffee machine, felt his fingers flutter over the machine nervously, cleared his throat self-consciously and attempted to still them. He scooped coffee into the basket and tamped it down – he’d done this yesterday, no hay problema – even if the last person he’d served coffee too had been a complete jackass. He slotted the coffee holder into the machine and slid a ceramic cappuccino cup underneath.

“Milk,” he muttered, and went to root around in the fridge. The bottles had blue and red labels; this time he read the writing on them carefully.

“Ah, Keith?!” he yelled, trying to keep a panicked edge out of his voice. His co-worker stuck a disgruntled mop-haired head out of the door.

“What?”

“Where’s the-?” He made a milk bottle shape with his hands. “The other milk, the-”

Keith looked irritated to have been interrupted. “In the fridge,” he said unhelpfully.

“No it’s not. Not the right one. The…You know?”

“No.” Keith’s face was completely dead.

“I can’t…” He was completely frustrated. “Semi. Semi! Semidesnatada.”

He made the milk-bottle-shape with his hands again desperately. Keith’s face was like a big stupid mask.

“Not in the slightest.”

He almost screamed. “Chorra! El burro sabe mas que tu, the- you know, Keith work with me here. The semidesnatada!”

“Semi-skimmed?” Shiro supplied from behind them.

“Yes!”

“Oh.” There was no change to Keith’s expression. “I haven’t brought it out yet.”

Lance fingers twitched, as if they had their own mind to strangle him. “Well would you mind?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Sure.” He disappeared. Lance busied himself with filling the cup with a shot of coffee.

Shiro adjusted his position, and Lance thought he saw him glance at the clock. The movement pulled up the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt, and Lance caught a glimpse of what looked like a tattoo. When Keith brought out two bottles of semi-skimmed milk, Lance half-filled the steel jug and lined it up underneath the frother wand. To his chagrin, Keith stayed leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

Shiro was smiling encouragingly. “Take this bit slow,” he said.

“Release the pressure on the steam arm into a cloth first,” Keith chipped in.

While making a point to visibly ignore him, Lance followed his instructions. He placed the arm under the surface of the milk, listening for the whistling noise like Keith had taught him. After a while he moved it to the side. It started to spit so he covered the nubby mouth hole of the frother wand with more milk.

“Um.” He felt his brows knitting together as he looked to Shiro for support. “How long do I-”

All three of their faces screwed up in unison. The roiling hot milk had begun emitting a foul singed smell. Lance took it off quickly and peered into it.

“Well,” he tried to say optimistically, before Keith let another undignified snort slip between his lips and bolted into the back.

“Well for next time,” Shiro said kindly, “Perhaps remember to attach the thermometer…” He popped it on. “And in the words of Douglas Adams-”

Lance finger-gunned. “So long and thanks for all the fish.”

“Don’t panic.” Shiro came to stand next to Lance. “Now let’s try this again.”

 

After several more attempts with less and less milk (“waste not, want not,” said Shiro wisely), they both admitted that Lance did not yet have The Gift with the finer arts of coffee-making. Shiro cheerily insisted that he keep practicing, but perhaps not be tasked with their trickier regulars.

“Normally I wouldn’t help front-of-house on a regular basis,” he said as he tied an apron around his waist and straightened his purple shirt collar, “But ideally there need to be three baristas on the go at one time, so while we’re still trying to steal one, ah, I mean…recruit one from our sister cafés…” He shrugged helplessly. “Keith, would you do us the honour?”

And so the rabble descended.

The first half of the day was so hectic that Lance figured it was conceivable, really, that he would miss a vital text from Hunk that would save his face, hide and bacon all at once. Conceivable, really, that he wasn’t able to save his face, hide and bacon all at once by scarpering into the back at the first opportunity. Because, as it was, he missed that text.

 

**Hunk**

[12:45] I hate to do this to you but I’m heading into Z’s for my customary frappemochacappolatte just to see your face when I order it.

[12:46] don’t say I didn’t warn you or anything.

 

[13:02] Hey I think I just saw that barista lady you were crushing on?

 

Lance had just taken a quick break before switching with Shiro when he spotted his friend as he entered the café. He winked as Hunk stepped into place in the queue and flung his arms open welcomingly when he reached the counter.

“Acere, buddy, qué vuelta, what can I get you?”

Hunk was grinning. “Confident.”

“Well pal, what can I say? I’m a born natural. What can I do you for?”

Behind him he heard Keith snigger as he slapped a cloth on the work surface.

Hunk looked ponderously at the menu. Unbeknownst to Lance, he’d made three passes waiting for the queue to lull; he wanted to take his sweet time with this.

“Can I get…” he said ponderously, “An upside down grande double caramel latte…” He watched Lance’s eyes go glazy with fear with a tiny twinge of guilt. “One pump of vanilla, extra whip, to stay in, for Hunk.”

“Dude.” Lance shook his head in exasperation. “Okay, give me a moment.” He peered at the till buttons. “Grande.” _Click._ “Double. Caramel latte.” _Click. Click._ “Upside down?!” He squinted at Hunk balefully. “I’ll turn _you_ upside down. Where even is that?”

Keith appeared at his elbow, a towel slung over his shoulder. “How about I handle the till on this one?”

“Er, no?” Lance blurted before his brain could remember that he was trying to avoid his co-worker.

“Most definitely,” said Hunk, his big amiable face revealing no hint of the malicious entity he was clearly harbouring.

 _I hate you_ , he mouthed over Keith’s shoulder, who was writing up Hunk’s drink order with a smirk and signalling for the next customer to move forward. Standing by the pick-up counter, Hunk was staring fixedly at Keith’s face, but every now and then would drop Lance an innocent smile. _Evil_ , Lance reiterated with exaggerated mouth movements and gesticulations _._

 

Needless to say, while Keith served and prepared four other customer drinks in the background, Lance fucked it. He fucked every single element, muttering multilingual curse words and thinly veiled threats to his best friend under his breath while he did. (“Dios mío,” he sighed as he burnt the milk for the second time.) He was so busy making a third attempt on the milk and fucking it than he didn’t notice Keith’s smarmy grin at him untwist into a genuine smile at the next customer. What he did see was them both turn to him as he spat acrid-smelling burnt milk up his apron, and even then it was the briefest glance as his eyes travelled heavenward to mentally cuss out a prayer.

Keith laughed. The merry outburst surprised Lance so much that it stopped his retaliation preparation for Hunk mid-thought. Keith’s sullen and dismal outer appearance was brightened by his laughter to the _n_ th degree, Lance caught himself thinking, and as soon as he did he nearly dropped the jug of milk he was holding.

“Let’s catch up later,” Keith said to the customer. To Lance, he said, “Swap.”

“Thank God.” Lance dumped the milk in the sink and handed the jug gratefully over. “Sorry for the wait, what can I get you?”

“I would say how’s the job going, but I can already see that for myself,” said a familiar voice, and Lance looked straight into the blue eyes of the barista he used to drag Hunk along to make eyes at.

“And I would use one of my infamously charming pick-up lines but I’m afraid I’m fresh out today,” he groaned and scraped a hand through his hair. “I admit, it’s harder than it looks.”

She gave a husky laugh and pushed her curly hair over her shoulder. It was bleached pastel grey and matched her baby pink eyeshadow. “You’ll get the hang of it, I promise. I’ll take a white mocha to go for Allura.”

Lance rung it up, trying to discreetly scrub milk scum off his apron, and smiled widely at the next customer. Hunk waved at him on his way to their nook – Keith had churned out his drink at record speed – and Lance stuck his tongue out.

“I’ll pop by when it’s less busy sometime,” Allura said to Keith as she scooped up her mocha, “I need to go pick up my cousin now. Bye Keith. Bye New Guy!”

“The name’s _Lance_ ,” he said over Keith’s head, feeling gratified that he was indeed a head taller than his co-worker, and even more so when Allura gave him a quick smile and a wave.

“What?” he smirked when Keith’s customary scowl fell into place, letting an unconcerned shrug roll off his shoulder, “Can’t you handle some competition?”

“How’re we doing team?” Shiro said from the doorway and they fell into rapid motion once again.

 

Keith seized the opportunity to go and fetch more milk as soon as it arose after Allura’s visit. His phone buzzed urgently in his pocket even as he dived into the back, and he pulled it out to fire back messages to his ex-colleague and permanent pain in the ass friend.

 

**Allura**

[13:55] heheheh (¬‿¬)

[13:58] so I see someone got hired

 

[15:30] you confessed your undying love yet?

[15:31] spill, im curious and need drama in my life ✿

 

**Keith**

[15:31] will u stop

[15:31] I swear if u make a point of coming in here and dropping hints im going to

[15:31] *throttle noises]

[15:32] my day2day life is already a nightmare without any help thx

 

**Allura**

[15:33] as if I would ??

 

**Keith**

[15:33] u big perv yes u would so pac k it in right now o swear

 

**Allura**

[15:35] i’m not the one who sulked for hours everytime s o m e o n e came in to flirt

[15:36] so you gotta let me have my fun

[15:36] and fun I shall have

[15:38] (ღ˘⌣˘ღ)

 

**Keith**

[15:45] i h8 u

 

Keith hastily returned his phone to his pocket after sending his last reply before Shiro saw and turned back to the machine with a grim expression. He foamed the milk with quick, practiced motions and wrote the customer’s name in crisp, neat capitals. He put it next to a takeaway cup which had the name _Maggie_ on it in curly italics, the g’s both loopy and ending in little hearts.

“My instagram is gonna love this,” _Maggie_ in italics said enthusiastically to her friend as she grabbed at it, and Keith didn’t quite manage to wipe the flat look off his face as Lance looked over to him.

“Hey there, sourpuss, two iced caramel lattes. And can you make the names _instagrammable?_ Apparently _that’s_ a phrase now.”

Keith looked at the two college girls staring at Lance with big, bug-like eyes. No doubt part of the same group as _Maggie_ in italics.

“No,” he said shortly.

“It’s alright ladies, I got this,” Lance assured them and swaggered over to where Keith stood by the takeaway cups. “Is my va-va-voom beating your va-va-voom a little?” He grinned at Keith as he said it.

Keith thought that Lance had a lot of teeth and that they were unnaturally straight and pointy. He was also very close. Keith was used to there being a counter and a till and a young attractive female co-worker between them. He felt himself flush and reflexively brought his hand up to his right cheek to shield it.

“O…okay.” Lance gave him a strange look and reached past him to grab two plastic cups. He drew two names on them in swirly calligraphic handwriting in no time at all and proffered them like a wine bottle to the girls before passing them to Keith. “And for you, sir?” he said to the man behind.

“I’ll take a calligraphy coffee exactly the same, please, for Steve,” the man said.

“Sure thing, Steve.”

As he prepared the iced coffees, Keith watched the other man look Lance up and down appreciatively. His co-worker was oblivious, tapping on the till and whistling through his teeth.

“Idiot.”

The girls waiting for their coffees looked up at him in alarm and he realised he’d said it a little louder than he should have. Lance had paid no attention.

“Oblivious idiot,” he hissed to himself.

 

Keith was being _weird_ , in Lance’s opinion, and it was a weirdness he could only accredit to the kind of fire that having competitive compatriot brings. He was grimacing every time Lance interacted with a customer in what he liked to call his “frirty” voice (a healthy mix of friendly and flirty), and Lance solemnly believed it was because he was equal parts envious and resentful. Unfortunately for Keith, Lance had grown up one of five siblings, and being in the middle, he was forced (or so he loudly declared to whichever family member was closest) to even out the sibling hierarchy chain in competitive nature.

Today, he’d gunned his gear into overdrive. Lance made various excuses to himself for the his furious competitiveness towards Keith, but honestly it was because he got a little bit of a kick every millimetre further he could push those furious black brows down his face. He’d tried to be nice, he told himself, but if they couldn’t be friends then they’d at least be _rivals._

And so he dropped his hip, unleashed his laziest grin and did metaphorical battle with his co-worker. Almost every customer Keith interacted with, Lance dropped a smooth one-liner and affixed his Most Winning Smile™ for and sent them giddy and spiralling out of the door. By the end of the lunchtime rush, he was certain he could see a twitch forming in the corner of Keith’s eye, and was even more sure he’d put it there. It shouldn’t have given him a kick, but it did. As rush hour rolled over them, it seemed that he’d struck a nerve. Keith had bared his teeth in what could be barely be called a smile, but it seemed to be doing the trick. A woman in her twenties turned to her friend and fluttered her hand at her face.

“Doesn’t he look like a rockstar?”

The friend nodded agreeably. “I wonder if he has any tattoos?”

Lance leaned over conspiratorially. “Just one. On his bum. It’s Ariel from The Little Mermaid.”

They both blushed and averted their eyes from his co-worker. When he looked over his shoulder, it was to see that Keith had heard and was shooting him a lethal glower. He smiled sweetly.

 

The queue had dropped off substantially by the time the evening rolled in, and only the stressed out late commuters were coming in and putting simple orders for strong plain coffee. Shiro was at the till and Lance was comfortably making Americanos and keeping the frother wand at arm’s length. Keith was grumpily wiping down the tables nearby. His head was turned slightly towards Lance and Shiro’s conversation.

“You speak Spanish, Lance?” Shiro asked mildly.

“Yeah.” Lance passed an enormous takeaway quad to to its owner and wiped his hands on his apron. “I grew up in half in Cuba and half in the U.K. We always go back for Christmas.”

“Are you a close family?

Lance smiled fondly. “Close and _huge_. We always go back to visit my abeulo y abuela, and now my eldest brother and his family.”

“Could you say something to me? If you don’t mind. I’ve always wanted to learn Spanish.”

Lance thought for a moment. “There was this saying that my siblings and I used to say to my dad when we went off to school. He’d say ‘¡Chao pescao!’ and we’d say ‘¡Y a la vuelta picadillo!” Lance chuckled at the memory. “It’s similar to an English saying… ‘see you later alligator,’ ‘in a while crocodile’, or something.”

The scar across Shiro’s nose flushed a little as he nodded. “I know it.”

They were both distracted by Keith stalking past to run his cloth under the tap.

“Say something to Keith now,” Shiro encouraged with a smile.

Lance turned to his co-worker. “Tienes la cara como una nevera por detrás.”

Keith’s brows knitted together. “What does that mean?”

“It’s an old Spanish proverb.” Lance smiled widely. “It doesn’t really translate that well.”

“Uh huh…” He sounded unconvinced. To Shiro he said, “It’s getting to closing time. Want me to put up chairs?”

“Lance can. Keith can you do a quick stock check? I’ll stay on the till until close.”

As Lance headed into the back of the café, he heard Keith say in a teasing tone, “So Allura came by earlier…”, followed by a quick thud and a bitten-off yelp.

 

Lance stacked the chairs tiredly, taking his time. When he finished, and he’d heard the unmistakeable sound of Shiro turning the lock on the double glass doors, he went into the back to fetch his bag.

He was just rubbing at his eyes, which felt gritty and dry, when his foot collided with something on the floor. It fell with a metallic crash on the floor. Liquid poured out as he stared stupidly down at it.

“Coffee..?” he mumbled.

“Oh _goddamit._ ” Keith had emerged from behind the shelves, and he looked furious. “Are you an idiot, what the hell?”

“Fuck you! I’m not an idiot. Who leaves flasks of coffee lying around on the floor?!” Lance snapped back.

Keith fumed on the other side of the puddle. “It was tucked into the corner! If you’d been watching where you were going-”

“If _you_ put it on a surface like a _normal person!”_

“ _What_ is going on?” said Shiro, standing in the doorway and staring at their face-off over the pool of cooling coffee.

“He-” started Lance.

“ _This_ idiot-” said Keith simultaneously.

“Alright _enough_!” Shiro cut over the top of them. “We have some serious teamwork issues going on here, and we’re going to work through them right now.”

“Wha-” Lance croaked. “I gotta…”

“Nope,” Shiro said firmly. “Keith clear that up and-”

“What!”

“Just do it, and get over here when you’re done. Lance, here.”

He skulked over, churlishly obedient, and nodded sourly as Shiro lectured him on the key principles of teamwork. When Keith joined them, Shiro gave him a stern look.

“There’s some kinks we need to work out here-”

“I’m not ashamed of my kinks-”

“Lance, I’m still your boss and I can easily dock pay.”

Lance dropped his head.

“And you two need to overcome whatever petty rivalry you’ve got going on here before the whole team implodes. So.” He made a vague gesture. “Let’s clear the air. Lance, what do you have to say?”

Lance turned to his teammate. “Seriously, who puts coffee on the floor?”

To his consternation, Keith had turned an alarmingly splotchy colour from his eyebrows down.

“I forgive you for kicking over my coffee,” he griped, surprising Lance. Shiro closed his eyes and nodded supportively.

“Not really my fault, but I’ll take it.” At Shiro’s frown, Lance grudgingly elaborated. “Okay. Sorry for kicking it over, I guess. And, if we’re on this topic, for being a bit of a penis on the morning of my first day.”

At Shiro’s concerned expression, he grimaced and shrugged.

Falteringly, Keith said, “Sorry for…telling you not to fuck up.”

“And land management on my ass?” Lance added.

He made a grunt of acknowledgement.

Shiro looked like he was on the verge of giving them a warning about their language. “Well, now that’s sorted?”

“Dismissed?” Lance said hopefully.

Shiro flapped a hand. “Get out of here.”

 

At around 7:30 in the evening, Keith sat back in the driver’s seat of his car with his newly made coffee and ground his hand against his face, ignoring the smudges that came off on the heel of his palm. He was trying, and spectacularly failing, to push Lance’s face out of his mind. He could replay in his head the dance of Lance’s long fingers on the till, the jut of his hip as he talked about the weather like it was the most fascinating topic in the world with their customers and the difference between his customer service smile and the smile he used when he found someone attractive. He thought of Lance’s slightly awkward interaction with his old colleague, took a burning chug of coffee and choked.

“Fuck,” said Keith.

He yanked out his phone angrily.

 

**Keith**

[19:31] u planned this somehow

 

**Allura**

[19:33] Whatever your beef is, it’s definitely with the boss, not me.

[19:35] How would I know that my beloved coworkers Crush Of The Century would replace me?

[19:36] it’s like a drama

[19:38] it sounds like I planned this but I promise I didn’t.

[19:38] you’re just v unlucky.

 

[19:42] Keith?

[19:43] what are you doing, pls say no drastic measures.

 

**Keith**

[19:45] Contemplating taking Jessie over a cliff.

 

**Allura**

[19:47] There are no cliffs in london, stop being so dramatic.

[19:47] And ypu would not do that, you love your car. This is a sympathy vote and you’re not getting it.

 

**Keith**

[19:50] damn.

 

**Allura**

[19:51] Just talk to the boy.

 

**Keith**

[19:52] im driving home now stop being a distraction

 

**Allura**

[19:53] Keith honestly

[19:54] Just talk to him!

 

**Keith**

[20:31] shh

 

 

At approximately the same time, in their local Five Guys, Lance slumped into the booth opposite Hunk with his food. He crammed a handful of Cajun-spice chips into his mouth.

“I really don’t see how you can’t _see,_ ” said Hunk conversationally.

“There is nothing wrong with Keith apart from the fact he is an asshole,” Lance grumbled.

“Lance, his _face!_ ”

“Is the face of an asshole.”

“You’re just mad he managed to talk to that girl without making a f…“ Hunk took in Lance’s dejected air and kindly tailed off. “Lance, as someone who has an older and a younger sister, are you really telling me you hadn’t noticed?”

Lance waved a fry at his best friend crossly. “Noticed what?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s wearing make-up.” Hunk unwrapped his burger ritualistically. “Foundation, contouring, y’know.”

Lance spread his arms exasperatedly. “Hunk, even if you are right in this aspect, how on _earth_ have you noticed this and I haven’t?”

“Um. I’m, like, 92% more perceptive than you?”

“Statistically accurate, but still.”

Hunk ate half of his burger in one bite. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just like a mystery.”

“I’d ask him, but you should’ve seen his face when I kicked over the coffee, Hunk.”

“Who puts coffee on the floor, anyway? That’s a recipe for disaster.”

Lance jabbed his burger at Hunk triumphantly. A wad of gherkins fell out. “ _Exactly_ my point, acere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just feel like Keith would use appalling text speak all the time.
> 
> Please do let me know if you spot any typos, and load on the criticism, I am ready
> 
> Translations-  
> Acere: Cuban slang for a friend / a dude, like saying amigo  
> Chupar verga: to suck cock  
> Pendejo: jackass / asshole  
> No hay problema: np  
> Semidesnatada: semi-skimmed  
> Chorra! El burro sabe mas que tu: Stupid! A donkey knows more than you  
> Qué vuelta: Cuban slang for what’s up  
> ¡Chao pescao!…¡Y a la vuelta picadillo! : two-person exchange like alligator/crocodile which means , “goodbye, fish!” and “next time, minced meat!” It comes from the way that the first 15 days’ ration card of the month gives you fish, and the next time it gives you meat.  
> Tienes la cara como una nevera por detrás: you have a face like the back of a fridge


	2. A Latte Fuss About Muffin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For context: Shiro is in his late twenties, Allura, Keith, Lance and Hunk are all graduate age (22-23), and Pidge will be 20. Lotor is about 15.

Keith’s first time seeing Lance had been through the café’s window about a year ago. That was a long time to harbour a crush Allura said – although Keith wasn’t sure it had been a crush at all in the beginning. At the time, he’d been in the heat of a long-running competition with Allura that had been conjured up one particularly slow afternoon. On a square of old chalk board they’d recycled from the previous menu, they kept a tally of all the outrageous outfits that they saw pass by the window. In Shoreditch, or the heart of “hipster London”, as he’d heard more than one customer say in a knowledgeable (and occasionally world-weary) tone, there were plenty.

Despite this, Keith was spectacularly losing when he spotted a young man strolling past in a canary yellow crop top and sunglasses in the shape of stars. That had been a celebratory chalky line for him, and the garish stranger provided many more points for him over the next few months: routinely on a Thursday, and occasionally throughout the week. The few times that Allura spotted him first, Keith had made a show of laughing it off in good grace, but he had to admit to himself that he sometimes spent more time throwing cursory glances out the window for that particular boy than he did looking at what he was doing. He’d overflowed a coffee cup more than once.

 

Then, of course, came the day when the garish stranger who racked Keith up so many points from outside the window went and walked straight into their coffee shop.

“Does it count if they’re not outside the window?” he muttered to Allura.

“Definitely not,” she replied in an undertone.

The stranger approached the counter, and Keith was overwhelmed by white teeth and flashing blue eyes and the ridiculous skin-tight vest top he wore. Keith was pretty sure he could see a nipple outline and it was making him feel sweatier under the collar than he liked.

“Well, hello there,” the stranger said silkily to his co-worker, scarcely sparing Keith a glance. “The name’s Lance.”

Keith went hot and then cold very quickly. Allura laughed. Male propositions never fazed her; she got enough of them on a daily basis.

“Hello, Lance, what can I get for you?”

Keith walked straight into the back and stood with his fists clenched for a moment. Of course it was wishful thinking on his part that anyone would come in with a cheesy, terrible pick-up line for him. Especially not with a colleague like Allura. He might well be gay, but he recognised Beautiful with a capital B when he saw it.

It took Allura three hours to work out what was bothering him.

“So, Lance is pretty cute.”

He had nearly thrown boiling milk over himself. “What?”

“You looked like you were sucking on a lemon the entire time he was in here,” Allura teased, “I can see right through you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Mm-hmm.” She looked as convinced as he felt. “Ask him for his number. We see him at least once a week, I’m sure he’ll be back.”

But Keith had not, and whenever Lance came in after that, he made sure to be making someone else’s drink so that he could covertly watch him through his lashes.

 

What luck was it that the person Shiro chose to replace Allura was none other than Lance. _His damn luck, that’s what_.

When he opened the door to the desperate knocking, he thought he recognised that back but if he was being honest, he was far too naïve to believe in such coincidences. So when Lance turned and he recognised that long, tanned and uncharacteristically dejected face, those blue eyes looking at him and only him for once, everything had gone into freefall. His heart was hammering so badly that he was surprised he could even speak.

If only he hadn’t been able to speak, maybe the first week would have been slightly smoother. Unfortunately, his system shut down so thoroughly that who would make a reappearance but school-kid-Keith, _emotionally-repressed-Keith_ who could never talk to cute boys so instead was just _really nasty_ to them. If there was one success that came out of that first week, it was that Keith was able to coax out those words that shot him so thoroughly through the heart when they’d first been directed at Allura.

_“It’s Lars isn’t it?”_

Of course it would have inspired a cocky response: this, of course, being the guy who once came in to Zarko’s in a zebra stripe crop top with a list of space-based pick-up lines for Allura. What Keith hadn’t prepared himself for was _his_ response to those words.

When he saw the cocky expression, the grin, the twinkle, as his new co-worker said, “The name’s _Lance_ ”, his mind had erupted like a disco on LSD. It was like all six lanes of a motorway filled with careening, flashing, screaming police sirens. It was as if his brain had turned into a strobe light.

He was aware that Lance was looking at him strangely. He dreaded to think what his face looked like.

“I’m… Keith,” he’d forced out.

Fuck.

The mantra he repeated for nearly the rest of the week as they dealt tetchily with people trying to order their seasonal specials before the season had even started (if Keith had to say, “I’m sorry but we haven’t started that special yet,” one more time, he was going to grab the next person by the nose and yell _“It is only September, you stupid fuck!”_ ) The mantra which had lasted all through the weekend and continued on this Monday as he dashed to work so _late, late, late_ , like that rabbit from that Disney film. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He flew through the back to see Lance pulling armfuls of milk out of the industrial-sized fridge and whistling to himself. His carry load had hitched up the corner of his purple shirt and Keith caught a brief flash of tanned hipbone. He coughed loudly.

“G’morning slowpoke,” Lance said cheerily, looking up to see him.

Keith grunted. He didn’t trust his voice.

Lance muttered something unintelligible as he walked into the café and Keith groaned at himself. This week, he had to turn it around.

 

 

At least, that was what he thought to himself until Lance, his face screwed up endearingly, burnt the milk _again_ and not long later looked stupidly at a customer who ordered a caramel macchiato before trying to make it and _fuck,_ Keith said to himself. _Fuck_.

As soon as the day ended, he grabbed Lance by the shirt as he tried to leave and stood in front of Shiro, stressed out of his goddamn mind because the tip box was so tragically empty, inane thoughts throbbing in his head so much so that they, for a brief, manic second, blocked out common sense.

“Please,” he said raggedly, “Let us stay for an hour or two. If he burns the milk one more time…” He mimed his head exploding.

“Excuse _me_ ,” Lance said, affronted, “I-”

“You’re excused,” Keith said distractedly, “Shiro.”

Shiro held his hands up in surrender. “No, I agree.” He checked his watch. “I’ll give you an hour and I’ll return to lock up. Not more than _one_ bottle of milk.” He pointed at them warningly.

Lance looked at him incredulously when Shiro left.

“What is this, after school detention?”

“I bet you’re familiar with them,” Keith countered grumpily.

“I hate that that’s true.”

They both stood awkwardly behind the counter. Only the spotlights above them were on, and the rest of the café was filled with soft darkness. Lance was quiet and close, and Keith was beginning to ask himself why he had ever thought this was a good idea.

“Okay,” he breathed, “We are going to do this over and over until it goes in and if it doesn’t then we’ll do it all again tomorrow after the shift.”

“Oh Keith.” Lance batted his eyelids excessively, “Take me out to dinner first.”

Everything from his toes to his eyebrows flushed red. Keith slammed his hand to his right cheek. “Idiot,” he snapped, “If you were better at making coffee in the first place, we wouldn’t even be in this situation.”

He saw Lance’s big blue eyes widen and cussed a mental blue streak. He backpedalled hastily. “Okay, that was harsh.”

Lance shrugged. “But true. Teach me sensei.” He gave a little bow in Keith’s direction.

Keith willed his flush down. “Show me what you’ve been doing when you go to make a latte and I’ll redirect you when I see you do something stupid.”

“I see this isn’t going to be some Yoda-level wisdom you impart on me,” Lance said tartly, moving to fill the jug.

“You bet your a- whoa, whoa!” He held out a hand. “First of all: way too much milk, pour some back in. That’s better. Okay, good. Now try with that much.”

He honestly directed him as best as he could, but the boy was hopeless. The milk was spitting everywhere, and Lance couldn’t seem to hold the jug steady.

“Here, no, Lance. _Lance!_ Raise the jug and hold it, wait-” He stretched out a hand as if to steady Lance’s arm and an electric shock passed from Lance’s forearm to his fingers.

They both yelped and jerked away, and as they did, Lance straight up dropped the jug. It hit the top of the counter with a bang and the boiling milk exploded like a geyser around Keith’s hand. He cried out in pain and then Lance was yelling too and dragging him to the sink to plunge his arm almost up to his elbow in cold water.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Lance swore, “Oh _fuck_ , Keith. Shit! I’m so sorry!”

“S’fine,” Keith grunted. His hand was throbbing. Lance was still gripping his wrist, and he wasn’t too inclined to tell him to get off. His skin looked very pale in the icy water next to Lance’s.

“I’m sorry,” Lance said again.

“It’s really fine,” Keith sighed.

Lance put his spare hand on his forehead. “It’s just, Dios mío, just I’m too magnetic! My personality, my looks, everything! I’m like a dangerous livewire. I should come with a warning.”

Keith scowled at him. “I agree with that. You are an accident waiting to happen.”

He retracted his hand from the water and Lance’s grip. “Let’s try that again.”

He tried to turn back to the counter but Lance grabbed him just below the elbow and pulled him back. “Oh no, buddy, that needs five minutes under water. That’s what my mama always said, or it’ll blister.”

Keith made a point to sigh heavily. “Fine, but you start on the milk again. Keep it steady and tilt it towards you.”

He studied Lance’s movements like a hawk, leaning as far as he could towards him while keeping his burnt hand under the tap.

“Right there!” He lunged forward before his brain could catch up with his body and made pains to gently grab Lance’s arm so they didn’t have a repeat of last time. He guided the jug into a tilt. “Hold it there.”

“That’s cold,” Lance whined as Keith flattened his burnt hand on Lance’s arm to keep them steady.

“Not for me it’s not,” Keith muttered. It was starting to tingle uncomfortably.

Lance looked at him sternly. “Keith, back under the tap!”

He returned reluctantly. “Hold it. You see it’s getting thicker?”

“We are going to have to talk about your word choices, acere.”

“Shut up! Do you see?”

Lance nodded as he peered into it.

“Take the steam arm out now.”

Lance obliged.

“Single shot of espresso.” Keith pointed. “Now the milk.”

Lance passed him the cup when he was done. He took a sip and smiled.

“Lance, you just made a latte.”

Lance made a show of wiping his forehead.

“You’re not done yet.” Keith switched off the tap. “Now for a cappuccino.”

“Nope. You need to get bandaged up first,” Lance said stubbornly.

Keith stared at his co-worker in disbelief. “I’m really fine.”

“Nope.” Lance disappeared into the back, his voice still faintly discernible. “…sure there was a first aid kit in here somewhere. Aha!” He reappeared with a green box held triumphantly over his head.

“Did you really just say ‘Aha’ out loud,” Keith said flatly. “Are you a Scooby Doo character?”

“Don’t diss Scooby Doo, man. I had a huge crush on Daphne when I was a kid,” Lance said seriously. Keith directed his most contemptuous look at him.

“Nope, none of that, this is a judgement-free zone,” Lance said as he pulled out a roll of surgical bandage and started to wrap it around Keith’s hand. “Hey, wasn’t this a scene in a movie?”

Keith let out an involuntary hiss as the first layers of the bandage touched his red skin and Lance winced along with him and muttered another apology.

“Probably,” Keith said dryly, “Lots of scenes in movies where people get near-fatally mutilated.” He thought for a moment as a pout began to form on Lance’s face. “You thinking of Saw? Battle Royale?”

“I never had you pegged for such a drama queen.” Lance sealed the bandage with surgical tape and stepped back with a flourish, not seeming to realise he was being completely ironic. “That’s it!” He mimed a lightbulb over his head. “Pirates of the Caribbean. You know when Elizabeth’s all like… _‘Will!’_ and he’s all like…bandaging her up, and she’s like,” he flung a hand up to his face, “Don’t stop!”

The heat was creeping back up Keith’s neck. “Where you by any chance a drama student?” he asked as casually as he could.

He was rewarded with a grin. “Star performer at A Level.”

Lance went to return the first aid kit.

“You’re not getting out of making this cappuccino!” Keith called after him.

“It’s like you’re a masoquista,” Lance said upon his return, shaking his head.

Keith recognised that word. “Yep,” he mumbled inaudibly to himself. To Lance, he said, “Do the same thing, but the milk has to be frothier. A cappuccino has to be much lighter than a latte.”

He stood slightly behind Lance this time, out of the splash zone. He had to lean to peer around his shoulder, which was both annoying and attractive. Annoyingly attractive.

Lance glanced over his shoulder. His eyes roamed Keith’s face. “Er, this okay?” he asked after a moment, sounding embarrassed.

Keith leaned around him. He gently took hold of the jug handle in his un-bandaged hand and lowered it.

“Bit more like that, so that you get some flow in the milk.”

The movement had brought him almost flush against Lance’s back and he backed off quickly. Lance smelt of soap and hair products; it lingered on his nose. _There has been altogether too much blushing today,_ Keith thought to himself.

“I think that’s good,” he said in as normal a tone as he could manage, “Tip the jug back and forth so you can see if it’s mostly foam.”

Lance did so, looking completely unaffected by Keith. A little pit opened in Keith’s stomach and he forced it closed.

“I think we’re good,” Lance was saying.

“Cool. In the mug.”

Keith was nursing the dregs of the cappuccino as Lance put the finishing touches on his triple hazelnut shot hot chocolate when Shiro returned. He took one look at Keith’s bandaged hand and closed his eyes as if in pain.

“Do I want to ask?”

“Probably not,” Lance said easily. “It was all Keith’s fault.”

“I- what?!” Keith spluttered. “Well, we’re gonna do this again tomorrow with that attitude, and you can learn the ridiculous orders from our regulars off by heart.”

Shiro crossed his arms. “Nope. This is all strictly off record too, I’m definitely not allowed to let this happen. Lance, can you comfortably heat milk now?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Then let’s move out troop. I need to lock up.”

Keith and Lance left together. Lance stifled a yawn into his elbow as he swilled his hastily transferred hot chocolate around its cup.

“Fuck the tube,” he huffed.

Keith slouched next to him, his hands shoved in his pockets. “Which way you headed?”

Lance yawned again. “South. It’s not even 9 o’clock, I don’t know why I’m so tired.”

“How far south?”

Lance blinked blearily at him. “Peckham.”

“Oh. I’m Brixton.”

“Cool. You wanna go get the tube together then as we’re going the same way?”

Was he actually going to do this? He could hear a little voice in his head that sounded a lot like Allura. It was chanting like a deranged cheerleader.

“Er, actually…”

 

“WHAT!” Lance crowed, tiredness forgotten, as he circled Keith’s car. “Keith, what!”

Keith pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, pleased.

“What is this _bonito coche,_ she’s, agh!” He kissed his fingers as if he were an Italian and Keith’s car were a pizza. “She’s _gorgeous,_ Keith!”

Keith slid into the driver’s seat, connecting his phone to the stereo. He worried for a moment that Lance wouldn’t fit – he seemed too lanky for his tiny little sports car – but in a flash he was in, looking around with sparkling eyes.

“Did you build her?” He patted the dash. “I feel like you built her.”

“Restored her a bit,” Keith corrected, “Someone sold her to a Nissan dealer looking a bit worse for wear and I just happened to be walking by when they were putting her out. Lucky thing too – Figaros tend to get snapped up.”

Lance leaned his head back. “Convertible?”

“You betcha.”

“She’s a very pretty colour.” Lance wound down the window and leaned out. “Red is very you. Does she have a name?”

Keith’s chest fluttered at the compliment. “I was just calling her Red until Allura said that it was stupid, so I’ve been calling her Jessie.”

Lance jerked back in. He mimed holding something over his face.

“James! Team Rocket, blast off at the speed of…” His voice tailed off at Keith’s blank expression. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Not really.”

“Pokémon, Keith!” Lance waited expectantly.

Keith drew his eyebrows together. “That…kids program?”

Lance threw himself back against the seat. “Hopeless.”

“Hey, easy! This car cost me more money than your yearly fake-tan regime,” Keith reproached him.

Lance looked apologetic for a split second before it turned to outrage. “I beg your pardon, this is all natural!”

Keith appeased him with a smile. Lance folded his arms and stuck his nose in the air.

“Okay, I know how get to Peckham, but you’ll need to direct me to your place when we get there.”

Lance pressed his lips together. “I don’t think I’ve gone there by car more than once. Hold up, let me pull up Google Maps…ah, crap. No signal.”

Keith peeled out of the carpark as Lance searched. He relaxed into the leather and rolled his window down as he cruised past the tube station.

“Okay, I got it,” Lance said, “Now what tunes have we got in this baby?”

“Oh, I’ll think you’ll like them.” Keith turned his speaker on.

Within the first few seconds, Lance had scrunched up his face. “Is this…Linkin Park?”

“What? No. This is Shinedown.”

“So the same thing?”

Keith was aghast. “No way the same thing. In fact nothing alike!”

Lance looked unconvinced. A minute later, when the song changed, he said, “So is _this_ Linkin Park?”

“Wrong again. Black Veil Brides.”

Lance flung up his hands. “They all sound the same!”

Keith shook his head mutinously. “They aren’t even remotely similar!”

Lance said nothing, just held his hand out for Keith’s phone.

“ _Oh_ no. Driver picks the music.”

Lance shook his hand more violently, eyes popping. Keith rolled his eyes.

“Fine, but I have no data so you’ll have to make do with something on my library.”

“Great,” Lance demurred. He unlocked it, flicked straight onto Keith’s music library and began scrolling with an increasing look of horror. “Five Finger Death Punch, Breaking Benjamin, Pierce The Veil… Avenged Sevenfold… Boy, you do have a lot of Shinedown, huh.” He skewered Keith with such a disparaging look that Keith could feel it in the side of his skill without turning around. “Keith, where are the Beegees? Queen, Led Zep. Or like…” He shook Keith’s phone as if the music would suddenly appear on it, “Lady Gaga, Adele, Taylor Swift. I would even take standard chart stuff right now.”

“I think I have an Erasure song on there?” Keith said apologetically.

“Oh dear lord.”

They listened to ‘Always’ four times in a row before Lance grudgingly caved to Keith’s pleas for relief and changed it to a ‘harmless’ Fall Out Boy album.

“Okay, but tomorrow, I get to pick.”

“S’cuse me?” Keith all but choked.

“I’m not picking from this hogwash, should I say,” Lance rephrased, “Tomorrow, I’m going to give you an education in music.”

“It’s brilliant song-writing,” Keith argued hotly, “And that’s beside the point. You’ve literally invited yourself without asking.”

Lance hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll pay you in snacks. And proper music.”

“Let me think about this. No.”

“Aww, Kee-eeith,” Lance whined childishly.

“My music is fine. And if you _really_ want a lift to work with me, you can pay in actual cash. That carpark isn’t free. Plus it’s a detour for me. I don’t mind dropping you off occasionally but that’s my final offer.”

 _Don’t accept, don’t accept,_ he pleaded, _this car is tiny and that’s too close_ every _morning and_ every _evening._

Lance stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

“You want me to crash?” Keith asked testily. _Damn it._

Lance withdrew his hand. “Nope. So then I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow?” He had a saccharine sweet smile on.

“Fine,” Keith grunted, “But it’ll be eighty quid a month from you if you want a lift every day.”

“Jesus.” Lance settled back in his seat. “But worth it. And it’s about the price of a monthly tube pass. Right up here.”

Lance directed them through Peckham to a grey tower block of flats.

“This is me,” he said, jumping out. As an afterthought he stuck his head back through the window. “Want my number? In case you’re a terrible employee and are late again tomorrow.”

Keith scowled, but let Lance tap his digits into his phone.

“Like, text me if you’ve overslept.”

“Do you listen to yourself when you speak?” Keith said acerbically, and reversed back onto the road before Lance could see the ugly puce he was sure his face had turned.

When he had safely parked in his space under his own block of flats, he killed the engine and slumped wearily back into his seat. He pulled out his phone with a groan.

 

**Keith**

[21:40] new development

 

**Allura**

[21:41] I’m listening!

 

**Keith**

[21:41] with lance

 

**Allura**

[21:41] I’m listening closely.

 

Keith deliberated over the message before he sent it.

 

**Keith**

[21:43] got his no. and apparently am now driving him 2 work evry day

 

**Allura**

[21:43] *deafening screaming*

[21:43] !!!

[21:44] I hope I’m conveying my excitement to you here.

[21:44] Keith this is huge

 

**Keith**

[21:45] It’s not huge

 

Keith slugged up the stairs with a huff, unlocked his flat and threw himself onto his bed. He buried his face into his pillow and let a sigh filter out that felt like his soul leaving his body. Somewhere near his elbow, his phone vibrated insistently.

 

**Allura**

[21:46] it so IS huge

[21:46] are you guys texting?

[21:52] have you told him you’re so hot for him?

[21:53] is he hot for you??

 

**Keith**

[21:54] stop

[21:54] im turning my phone off

 

He didn’t turn off his phone, although he did ignore Allura’s pouty reply. Instead he flicked through his phone. He had eleven contacts, some important, some not and one or two he should probably delete. The newest contact was written all in capitals, and it said **LANCE MCCLAIN BBY** with three exclamation marks. Keith hovered his thumb over Lance’s name. Should he text him? He deliberated for a minute or two before brushing his thumb over the ‘Message” icon. Immediately, Lance’s name flashed onto his screen. The dial tone buzzed tinnily, and slightly ominously.

“No!” shrieked Keith. He fumbled for the hang up button just as he heard Lance’s faint voice on the receiver.

“Hello?”

Keith smashed the red button.

After a moment of breathing, and allowing his heart to slow down, he clicked ‘New Message’.

 

**Keith**

[22:18] sorry

[22:20] i hit the wrong button

[22:20] its keith

 

**Lance**

[22:20] KEITH

[22:21] YOU CALLED ME? ARE YOU LIKE 40 YEARS OLD? WHO DOES THAT THESE DAYS

 

**Keith**

[22:22] …

 

**Lance**

[22:22] why DID you call me?

 

**Keith**

[22:23] i

[22:23] hit

[22:23] the wrong

 

**Lance**

[22:24] Aw, did you miss me?

 

**Keith**

[22:24] button

[22:24] WHAT

 

Keith slammed his phone into his pillow, fuming. “Jerk,” he muttered. He checked his phone again.

 

**Lance**

[22:25] it’s okay if you missed me

[22:26] ლ(• ─‿‿─ •)ლ

 

Keith squinted at his screen. “What the hell is that?”

He thumbed out a message and then deleted it. After several minutes of deliberating over what sounded less stupid, he gave it up as a bad job and pulled the comforter on the bed over his legs. He passed out without even taking off his clothes.

 

**Lance**

[22:40] Er, Keith?

 

-

 

**Lance**

[22:43] In your opinion, when someone ignores your texts, what does it mean?

 

**Hunk**

[22:45] You piss someone off, bud?

 

**Lance**

22:45] not sure…

 

**Hunk**

[22:47] depnding on the culprit, either 1. annoyed 2. distracted 3. forgetful 4. asleep

[22:47] who is it?

 

**Lance**

[22:48] keith

 

**Hunk**

[22:48] 1.

[22:49] Definitely 1.

 

[22:58] Lance?

 

[23:10] is this one a 4?

[23:15] night buddy

 

 

-

 

 

The drive the next day felt tense to Keith, although apparently not to Lance, who warbled cheerily along to his music. He had the window rolled down to mask the damp heat that was collecting at the back of his neck, thankfully unnoticed by his passenger.  
“Movin’ on up,” warbled Lance slightly out of key, “Movin’ on out.”  
“Would you stop,” groaned Keith.  
Lance’s head whipped round like an owl to stare unblinkingly at Keith. “Time to break free,” he sang shrilly. “NOTHING CAN STOP ME!”  
Keith heaved a sigh and tried to tune him out. To his relief, Lance was distracted momentarily by his phone. Keith subtly turned the volume down, and nearly swerved onto the pavement when Lance suddenly screamed.  
“What the hell?!” he snapped.  
Lance thrust his phone at him. “My buddy Hunk just got an interview at the UK Space Agency!”  
Keith clutched at the front of his hoodie and straightened the wheel with his other hand. “Jesus Christ, Lance, don’t do that.”  
Lance laughed in an appeasing manner. Keith tried to subtly wipe his neck.  
In his honest opinion, the music didn’t improve, but they at least made it to the cafe without further incident. Lance skipped out – skipped – and business began more or less as usual with one notable exception. The attention Lance was paying to his face. More specifically, the sneaky way Lance seemed to think he was doing it. Keith grit his teeth, determined not to make a big deal out of it. It was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. He didn’t particularly want to go through the rigmarole with this boy of all people, but if Keith needed to put his walls up then he would. He was no stranger to pain.  
  
Or so he told himself.  
  
Keith lurked by the espresso machine as the first customer through the door walked up to Lance.  
“Good morning, welcome to Zarko’s. What ca-”  
“Vanilla latte.”  
“Would you like that hot or iced?” Lance asked, ringing it up. He was much better at handling morning customers than Keith. Maybe even better than Allura.  
The woman gave him a blank stare. Lance blinked back.  
“Ma’am? Hot or iced?”  
“Medium.”  
Lance smiled easily. “Sure thing, medium vanilla latte. Hot or iced?”  
“Susan.”  
He paused for a beat. “Oh, your name is Susan. Okay, is this hot or iced?”

Lance was holding his head very stiffly, as if he was about to look round at Keith and trying not to. It was a bit early for a smile for Keith, but he felt one coming on anyway.

“To go, please. I don’t need a receipt.” She attempted to tap her card against the machine.  
Lance’s shoulders were nearly at his ears as he struggled to remain composed. “Okay sure, try again there.” He scribbled her name on a hot takeaway cup and passed it to Keith, still not meeting his eyes.  
The next customer moved up in the line.  
“Hi, welcome to Zarko’s, what can I get you?”  
“Large caramel latte.”  
“Is this hot or iced?”  
“Phillip.” He tried to swipe his card.  
Lance shot a desperate glance at Keith. His face was puckered, and he cleared his throat.  
“And so sets the tone of the day,” he muttered to Keith.  
The first customer marched back up to the counter.  
“I wanted this iced!” she sniffed.  
“Of course you did,” said Keith expressionlessly, and watched Lance snort and flee into the back with a warm feeling in his stomach.

Lance re-emerged when the customers had gone with Shiro in tow and a bag of coffee beans as a pretence for his trip. He looked sheepish.  
“How do you do that?”  
“Do what?” asked Keith.  
“Not laugh at 70 percent of the people in here.”  
“Because I don’t find joy in anything,” Keith intoned.  
Lance whistled at him. “So emo.”  
Keith sneered back and returned to his coffee-making.  
“Good to see the buds of friendship I tried to sow are flourishing,” Shiro observed dryly.  “I have good news for you both – we’ve got in some more part-time staff, so your weekends will free up and we’ll be less under-staffed.”  
Keith pondered the idea of sharing Lance’s company with female part-timers, and soured. “Mmrpgh,” he said.  
“Thank you, Keith,” Shiro said seriously.  
“Such eloquence,” added Lance.  
Keith shot them both sullen glares and returned to what he was doing.  
  
As the day went on, Keith found himself trying to avoid Lance’s increasingly unsubtle inspection of his face. He was just backing away from one such incident, as Lance’s sea blue eyes seemed intent on finding the answer to life’s questions in the pores of his nose as he reached past him for the chocolate powder shaker, when he heard a familiar husky voice in the doorway.  
They both looked up to see Allura, her curly hair fanned out over sable chunky-knit sweater, entering the café with a younger look-a-like. Somewhere behind them, Shiro coughed and Keith turned quickly enough to see him disappearing into the back with red ears. Lance had noticed this too, and he lifted a quizzical eyebrow that only Keith could see. Not blessed with that level of fine muscle control, Keith furrowed his instead, and mouthed ‘later’, hoping that Lance understood.  
When Allura reached the till, she smiled warmly at both of them. Keith finished off the drink he was making, slid it over to its owner and went to hover by Lance’s shoulder.

Allura was smiling widely. “How’re we doing boys?”  
“Better now that you cuties are here,” Lance said, placing a hand on his hip. Keith wanted to smack it off, and focused on ignoring the sideway glances Allura was giving him. Lance was continuing. “What can I get you?”  
“White mocha to stay in, please.” Allura tried even harder to make eye contact with Keith. He pulled out a mug and ignored her.  
“And you, beautiful?” Lance said to Allura’s companion. They peered balefully at him through long dirty blonde hair.  
“I’m a boy.” Allura’s cousin tucked a long strand of hair behind his ear. He had the same dark skin as his cousin, several shade richer than Lance’s honey tan.

Keith saw Lance’s taken-aback expression appear for a moment, before that same wide smile slipped back on. He winked.  
“Still applies, beautiful. So, what can I get for you?”  
Keith watched the boy flush a bright, delicate pink. His mouth opened and closed. Allura playfully swatted at Lance, and he backed off with a laugh.

  
Keith wondered when he’d remember how to breathe.

  
“Hot chocolate, please,” the boy said to the floor.  
“Sure. For?”  
“Lotor.”  
Lance stuck his tongue out as he scribbled his name on a post-it.

“Coming right up, darling,” he said, smiling flirtatiously at Allura as she wrapped an arm in mock protection around the boy.  
“Lo, this way,” Allura guided her cousin away. To Keith, she said, “That boy’s a menace, keep him under control.”  
Keith made their drinks with a slightly derisive mantra repeating in his head.  
_Did I really see that? He flirted with a guy. He called a guy beautiful. He called a guy-_  
Lotor skulked behind Allura as they made their way to a nearby table, and flashed embarrassed little glances up at Lance. The blush didn’t leave his face.  
Keith honestly felt like he was choking. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him that Lance might not be the heterosexual womaniser he’d first thought. Although this proved nothing, he reminded himself. Nothing at all.  
_Calm down._  
His heart pulsed in direct rebellion.  
Lance was shooting him some searching looks, but Keith didn’t trust himself to speak. After a few more customers went by with Keith making and serving their orders in complete silence, his co-worker stopped looking over and turned away.  
_Keep it cool,_ he willed himself. _Lance can tell you’re being weird._

“Hey Lance?” he said gruffly.

 _Just tell him you_ really _need the bathroom. Ask him if he make this hot chocolate while you go._ “Nathroom?” Keith heard himself say. He felt his cheeks flood with heat. “Hot...the hot?”

He fled then, leaving Lance blinking behind him.

In the bathroom, he curled his fingers around the basin and glared at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t had to deal with a crush this large since…well, possibly ever. He was vibrantly aware of his thrumming heart and the blotchiness of his cheeks.

“Calm down,” he told himself for the millionth time. “Don’t screw this.”

 

 

At the till, still with an absent Keith, Lance tried to juggle orders and drinks. Eventually, flustered and covered in chocolate powder, he stuck his head into the back.

“Shiro!” he called.

The man looked sheepishly up from where he was filing paperwork on the small table.

“Can I have some help?”

Shiro tucked his pen absent-mindedly behind his ear. “Where’s Keith?”

“AWOL. Probably stuck in the bathroom.”

Shiro gave a small sigh and heaved himself up from the chair, upsetting the squat table with his enormous thigh muscles. Several pens clattered to the floor. “Be right there,” he said tiredly.

When he joined Lance, he looked everywhere but the small table where Allura and her cousin were sitting. He began taking the till orders while Lance did battle with the steam arm.

After another five minutes passed, Lance began to seriously worry that Keith had drowned himself in the cistern by accident. He was distracted from his thoughts by Allura approaching the counter, tossing her hair behind her. He dropped her and her cousin a wink. The flush that had been fading over the boy’s cheekbones deepened again.

“Hey Lance, I was waiting for Keith to emerge but he’s-”

“Probably stuck in in the toilet _,”_ Lance interjected, gratified by Allura’s laugh.

“But Lotor and I are thinking about going bowling tomorrow. You and Keith should come.”

“Well, I’ll be there for sure. Keith…” They both looked towards the bathroom. “He’ll come if he can get out of the U-bend.”

“Cool.” She smiled widely at him. “Later Lance. Bye Shiro.”

Shiro knocked over the tip box as he went to absently wave. Lance side-eyed him as his scar turned a deep purple. He mumbled an apology to the elderly woman at the till.

Not long after, Lance saw movement in his peripheral. Keith was slinking back from the bathroom with his customary scowl in place. They all rotated smoothly behind the counter.

“Dare I go into break time regulations again?” Shiro asked. He sounded to Lance like he needed a decade long nap.

Keith grumbled something in a conciliatory tone. Shiro sighed and retreated into the back again.

“You get locked in?” Lance joked.

Keith made a noise that sounded like a cocktail of vowels swimming in phlegm and busied himself with seemingly anything he could do to avoid looking at Lance.

Mildly concerned, Lance placed a hand on his shoulder, and felt every muscle lock as soon as he did. Keith’s big grey eyes stared furiously at a point somewhere over his shoulder. His face was turning a violet shade of red. Lance let his hand slide off. Without any more words, they both returned to work.

 

Lance took the tube after their shift finished, making a great show of letting everyone know he was planning to meet friends in Soho. He rode it straight home. It took nearly twice as long as the car.

 

 

*

 

 

“And _then,_ ” Lance whined, “he just got super weird.”

“Mm-hmm,” Hunk hummed.

“He wouldn’t look at me at all.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Just because I _winked_ at a guy.”

“Mm.”

“He never struck me as a homophobe though, that’s the thing.” Lance rolled onto his side and watched Hunk pouring over his laptop.

“Yeah.”

“But I guess you can never tell with some people.”

“That’s right.”

“Because he is definitely a humanoid robot ship controlled by a tiny green Martian.”

“Yeah.”

“Why a green Martian, I hear you ask? Because there are no natural predators on Mars, and so they have no need for camouflage.”

Hunk squinted at his screen. “Exactly.”

“Hunk.”

He looked up vacantly.

“Are you with me buddy?”

“Sorry Lance.” Hunk half-closed his screen and grimaced apologetically. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s okay big guy. What’s got you distracted?”

Hunk folded his arms around himself. “This assessment centre I mentioned to you is actually tomorrow.”

Lance almost launched himself off the bed. “Hunk! Why didn’t you say so?”

Hunk shrugged. “You just seemed so down with worries about work and Keith and everything, I didn’t want you to feel like I was interrupting.”

Lance rolled off the bed. He threw his arm around Hunk and pulled him into a hug. “Dude. Interrupt all you like. Let’s do the prep.”

 

Later, when Hunk had retired to his own room to get his outfit ready, Lance’s phone chirped. He had a short text from Keith, asking if he wanted a lift in the morning. He replied with some half-assed excuse about accompanying Hunk to his assessment centre and placed his phone screen side down on his bedside table. He flipped open his laptop to play a few casual games before bed, hearing Hunk practicing interview questions through the thin walls, and below, the unmistakable sound of the headboard banging in their third flatmate’s bedroom. Lance rolled his eyes and pulled his headphones on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always by Erasure is a class song lemme just say, it was on Robot Unicorn Attack, aka the best game ever. 
> 
> There will be more context in future episodes, I promise. Again, feel free to pile on the criticism, poke holes to your heart's content, every little helps me.


	3. You’re Bread To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I’ve been playing videogames.
> 
> Flag for mild homophobic slurs and reference to bullying in this chapter.

The atmosphere was stiff in the café the next day. Unmistakeable to Shiro and Keith was Lance’s haughty up-turned nose, and his slightly wooden cheeriness. His eyes glazed when they ran over Keith. At one point, when he was distracted by a customer, Shiro mouthed ‘What did you do?’ over his shoulder and Keith gave him a deep, exasperated shrug.

It wasn’t completely a lie. Keith wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done; was in fact blissfully unaware of the significance of his actions yesterday. He’d been too wrapped up in the magnitude of his own crush to stop and think how it might reflect on Lance.

Lance had stopped trying to examine Keith’s face, which was flawless, and to Lance’s eye completely devoid of the apparent make-up Hunk kept mentioning. He had a feeling that his own efforts to appear normal were falling short. Shiro looked positively haggard. They were all tired, and testy with it.

At one point, Lance mentioned Allura’s bowling proposal to Keith, and received a flat response that he’d had a text from her. The brusque interaction carved the line of hurt a little deeper in Lance’s mind.

For Keith, who was trying a cautious approach and not feeling it was working very well, he was perplexed and unhappy at the tension he could feel, especially after their warming truce. He massaged his brain to remember what he could have said the day before to screw things up now.

There had been that moment where Lance put his hand on his shoulder and Keith’s long spell of abstinence had conjured up all manner of ways Lance could use his hands on him. He’d been so concerned about the colour of his face that he’d all but turned into a marble statue… Surely Lance couldn’t think?

He stared at the other boy’s back speculatively. Surely Lance couldn’t think that.

On his lunch break, Lance snuck into the bathroom to text a plea to Hunk to join him after work for bowling, and to ask if his assessment centre was going okay. He waited the whole agonising day for a reply back when thankfully, ten minutes before closing, his phone buzzed merrily.

 

**Hunk**

[18:50] Sure! Send me the address?  
[18:50] cool if I bring someone?

 

Dizzy with relief, Lance fired off a flurry of messages, and spent the last few minutes in a much more animated mood, humming slightly as he put up chairs.

“I’ll meet you at the bowling alley,” he said to Keith with a brightness he almost felt, “I invited Hunk so I’m going to meet him en route.”

 “Sure.” Keith frowned and tracked Lance’s departure as he cleaned the espresso machine.

Lance threw on his clothes in the back – he’d spent the better part of his evening routine last night picking them out. Deep red skinny jeans that he’d bought in a sale and never worn, but knew made his bottom look grabbable, under a tight black tshirt with a print of a neon cat. He pulled on his buttery leather jacket, a matching soft midnight colour with maroon arrows going up the sleeves (like a Mario Kart racetrack, Hunk liked to say), and strode out into the wind towards London Liverpool Street tube station.

Back at the café, Keith fingered his keys and frowned. Shiro was rifling through some paperwork at the low table.

“Everything okay?” Shiro didn’t look up from what he was doing, but his voice was equal parts warm and friendly.

Keith sat down next to him. “Not sure.”

Shiro scratched a few numbers on the paper. It sounded loud in the gloom of the storeroom. The bulb overhead had an audible electric flicker; it would need to be changed soon.

“Do you still remember what Maud said?” Shiro asked mildly.

Her spun sugar hair and brittle face drifted through Keith’s mind, her lips lined from half a lifetime of smoking. “Never don’t be yourself, or something.”

Shiro smiled. “Or something.”

Maud had been his eighth foster home; he had been her fourteenth, and also last, foster child. She had also been Shiro’s grandmother.

“Always with the double negatives.”

Shiro scratched his head with the end of his pen. “Dad reckons she did it to confuse my mother.” He smiled quickly. “She always felt a bit betrayed he settled down with a Japanese woman instead of someone from Wiltshire, or something.”

Keith laughed hesitantly. Shiro talked about his family as rarely as Keith did about his.

 “Well, I’d better get off.” He made a face. “Got to find somewhere to park in the centre still.”

"Okay, Keith. Don’t forget Grandma’s words.” He grimaced ruefully, “In that, at least, she was accurate.”

“Night Shiro.”

Keith left him scribbling and went to brave the parking situation in central London.

 

*

 

Lance had by chance caught up with Allura at the door – his lie about meeting Hunk had been just that, a small white lie – and he beamed at her and her younger cousin. They went in together, Lance feeling cool and comfortable in their company, to pick up their shoes.

“Size thirteen!” Allura exclaimed, “Have we discovered Bigfoot at last?”

“Well you know what they say about big feet?” Lance said, keenly aware of the last reception of this joke. “Big socks.”

Allura laughed in a genteel manner and rolled her eyes.

“Well, at least you laughed. Keith didn’t.”

Allura looked as if she were about to say something before Lotor interrupted.

“Size thirteen isn’t even that big Allura. Dad has like size fifty shoes,” he said primly.

“What!” Lance tried to size that out. “I didn’t think UK sizes even got that big.”

“EU sizes.” Allura looked between both of them, and shook her head. “Stop posturing, Lotor.” She thunked him gently on the head.

“Hey guys.”

Startled, they all turned around to see Keith had appeared behind them without any warning. He was holding his shoulders slightly too high and looking off over the alleys.

“Keith!” Allura hugged him.

A small bubble of jealousy grew in Lance’s chest, and he pulled a face.

Keith tried to smile, feeling distinctly uncomfortable after watching Lance effortlessly talking and gesticulating in their presence earlier while he’d been lurking in the entrance. He glanced over but Lotor had engaged Lance in conversation.

“How’re we doing, Mr Grumps?” Allura said in his ear.

 Keith groaned by way of answer.

She pulled back a little. “Oh dear.”

Keith looked closely at her face, at her immaculate skin, her brilliant eyes, which were reflecting the bowling alley’s pink lights, at the little cute curls spilling over her ears, and sighed. Even if Lance swung both ways, who could resist Allura?

“Come on then,” he sighed.

“We’re still waiting for two more,” Lance said to Allura, “But shall we get started anyway? I don’t know when they’ll arrive.”

 Keith laced up his shoes and watched Lance flirting with Allura, his mouth dry. They made a beautiful couple – they’d already turned several heads standing at the counter waiting for him – but Keith was keenly aware that he was only looking at one of them. God, Lance looked good in red. He’d always pictured him in more blues and greens, to match his earthy butterscotch tan but… Keith’s eyes slid up and down those long legs, watched the expressive hands poking out of the voluminous leather jacket. The dark neckline of his t-shirt made his throat look like honey.

A flush gathered, quick and high, on Keith’s cheekbones.

Jesus Christ, he needed to contain himself.

He looked around to see that Lotor had been watching him speculatively. He didn’t need the kid in on it too.

“Ready,” he called to the pair, standing and testing his shoes. He was dressed far less tastefully than Lance, but in similar clothing; slim black jeans and a simple dark grey t-shirt. Next to them both, Allura was resplendent in a creamy cropped jumper and high-waisted jeans.

Don’t they look good together, Keith thought grumpily, and crossed his arms over his chest, as if to keep the negativity from bursting free.

  
Lance’s friend and a shorter and younger looking guy arrived just as they were setting up the game, and Keith watched bemusedly as Lance all but attached himself to the big guy’s side. The guy – Hunk, he heard Lance call him – enveloped him back.  
“This is Pidge,” Hunk said and gestured widely to the group. “We met at our interview today.”

The kid murmured a hello and adjusted his glasses. Keith looked closely at him. Girl? Boy? Looked like both.

Lance was doing his introductions. Hunk’s cheeks darkened happily as he was introduced to Allura; he even bowed a little to her as if she were royalty.

“And this is Keith,” Lance said, looking in his direction but not making eye contact.

Hunk leaned across to shake his hand. “Good to meet you.” He looked between Keith and Lance as if he expected his friend to say something more, but Lance had moved to the panel and was typing out his name.  
“Best nickname wins,” Lance crowed.

“You only say that because you know you have a solid name chosen already.” Hunk dropped into the seat next to Keith. Pidge sat on the other side of him.

Lance grinned at them all as he pressed enter on the name.

 

_PLAYER 1 : JK BOWLING_

 

“Ha,” snorted Pidge, “That’s actually kind of funny.”

“Now you say that as if you expected it not to be funny.” Lance pouted.

Allura, smiling, replaced Lance at the panel.

Hunk laughed loudly. “And already she has a better handle on your personality than most people.” He and Lance pulled childish faces at each other.

“So, sorry if this is weird.” Keith scratched his head as Hunk went up to type in his name, “But which, I mean how do you-”

“What gender pronouns do I use?” Pidge was looking at him knowingly. “You can use the female ones. I don’t mind either way to be honest.”

“Right.”

Keith shifted. Pidge was looking straight ahead.

“I mean it’s what my brother uses so it’s fine for me but it changes, like, depending, y’know?”

Keith squinted at the ten-pins that were dropping in the next lane. “I think? You mean sometimes you’re more boy?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“And what are you today?”

“More boy.”

“Cool.” Keith nodded. “I thought so.”

Hunk was tussling with Lance. “Pidge you’re up, but be quick about it! Lance wants to sabotage the competition.”

Pidge looked back at Keith. “Want me to pick yours?”

Keith leaned back tiredly. He watched Lance’s flailing limbs in his periphery. “Please.”

 

“E-BOWL-A!” he howled later when his name popped up. Pidge popped an M&M in the air, trying to catch it, missed, and smirked at him.

Keith scowled. “And here I was thinking you’re all right.”

“The problem now is remembering who’s what,” Hunk pointed out.

He and Lance stared at the screen while their pins dropped for their lane.

“Well I’m first,” Lance said, counting on his fingers, “Then _Britney Spares_ is Allura, _Bolin_ is Hunk, _No Pin Intended_ -“ he paused to laugh, “Lotor? _Spare Me_ is Pidge and then bringing up the rear…”

Keith groaned softly and put his head in his hands. Lance stepped up to bowl.

The time passed amicably, and Keith often found himself in between Hunk and Pidge, whose company he found pleasantly undemanding. He found himself laughing out loud, his head thrown back, accepting Hunk’s proffered chips and sipping on a coke. Occasionally, when Hunk and Pidge’s conversation reached an intellectual crescendo he couldn’t keep up with, he’d peep over at Lance. The guy seemed more than happy sat in between the cousins, although Keith could immediately tell Lotor was the more enraptured of the two.

Lance rose for his go and made eye contact with Keith for the first time that day. He made a show of clapping his hands as if for attention.

“Alright, last round people.”

Keith looked glumly at the leaderboard. He was getting flattened. Lance and Hunk were competing for top place while Allura was neatly putting in spares a dozen points behind them.

Lance held up his bowling ball to his face and flexed his hips in preparation. Keith’s breath caught. The boy was all limb, doing a balletic run up to the line and gliding the ball down the lane. And damn, did his arse looks good in those jeans. The ball listed to one side and left two back pins standing up on opposite sides to each other. They looked like vampire fangs.

Thoughts of biting Lance’s neck rose, unbidden, in Keith’s mind. He pushed them down.

Lance fell to his knees when he missed both on his next bowl. “Hunk!” he wailed, “Avenge me!”

In the end, Hunk won, Lance and Allura drew and Keith came stone cold last. He was not even gratified by the title of best name, bestowed on him by a beaming Pidge.

“Insult to injury,” he muttered as they gathered their coats.

“Quick drink?” Lance floated as they left. “There’s a bar around the corner. It’s cool. Cuban. Lots of tequila.” He finger-gunned at Lotor.

Allura threw a protective arm around him. “Oh no.”

Lotor shrugged her off. “They’ll serve non-alcoholic stuff.”

She rolled her eyes. “One.”

She and Lotor set off, and Keith fell into step with Pidge behind them.

“Left up here!” Lance called from the rear.

 

“So,” said Hunk when they’d fallen a few paces behind.

Lance side-eyed him. “That’s never a good sign when you say that. You never start casual conversations with ‘so’.”

“So,” Hunk repeated casually, “Which barista are you hot for?”

“What a silly question.” Lance gave him a playful karate chop. “Allura, of course.”

Hunk gave him a long look, with big docile eyes. “You sure?”

They fell back a few more steps subconsciously, in the nature of conspiracy.

“What are you talking about buddy?” Lance was genuinely perplexed.

“Well, it’s just my observation,” Hunk shrugged, “But when you’ve dealt with homophobia like this before, you’re normally happy to make them uncomfortable, right? Or call them out on it?”

A puzzled look crossed Lance’s face. “Well, yeah.”

“But this…” Hunk gestured a line between Keith and Lance, “This seems a bit different. You’re ignoring him, but also not?”

Lance looked speculatively at Keith’s back. The guy was only wearing a cropped jacket over his t-shirt, and he didn’t even have the grace to look cold. “Er…”

“I mean I don’t want to push any opinions…” Hunk held his hands up in surrender. “I just got what I observed.”

“What did you observe?” Lance said, too quickly.

“I observed that there was much more wiggle in your bowling tactics than usual,” Hunk said meaningfully, “And that someone was paying close attention, naw’m saying?”

Lance felt himself sit back mentally to digest this. Hunk could certainly have a point, but he’d need to chew it over more. He asked Hunk about his interview to change the subject, and spent the rest of the walk happily discussing the stupidity of interview questions.

 The bar was busy and dark, and they squeezed through to order drinks before going in search of a table downstairs. Alcohol in his system was just what Lance needed, and by the time he’d polished off one cocktail and gone to get himself and Hunk another happy hour double, the group had commandeered a space. Hunk and Allura were talking animatedly opposite Keith and Pidge, and Lance chatted to Lotor and thought about Hunk’s words.

Lotor disappeared off to the bathroom before long and Lance, the fizz of alcohol softening his thoughts, watched Keith. He was nursing his first drink – he must be driving, Lance realised – and shaking his head vehemently, but not angrily, at something Pidge had said. Under the mellow golden lighting, his face glowed like a Parisian model.

Lance cupped his head in his hand and watched him absently, enjoying the way his dark hair seemed to pick up all the accents of the amber light. The alcohol had made him feel pleasantly fuzzy, and looking at Keith’s face was only helping the feeling.  
He was distantly aware that Lotor had returned, and then jumped a little out of his haze when Allura slapped her knee.

“Right,” she said briskly, “We’d best be off.”

She extricated herself from the table, and she and Lotor said their goodbyes. The remaining group closed rank around the table. Hunk immediately plunged into conversation with Pidge, dissecting their day at the assessment centre. Lance found himself next to Keith.

They sat awkwardly for a moment, Lance twiddling the stem of his cocktail glass around.

“So-”

“Hey d’you-”

They smiled sheepishly at each other. Lance made a go-ahead gesture.

“I think I may have upset you by accident,” Keith started hesitantly, curling a hand around his cheek. “So if I did, I wanted to apologise.”

“Do you know why you upset me?” Lance asked, looking at the passionfruit sitting wetly at the bottom of his glass.

“I think so.”

Lance turned to look him in the eyes. They glowed almost purple in the light.

“I was worried you were homophobic,” he said easily, as if they were discussing the weather report. “I know enough people that are.”

Keith laced his hands tightly in his lap. “I want you to know that I’m not. I promise. I-” He stilled, trying out the phrase in his head. “I’m-”

Lance interrupted his fumbled sentence. “It’s really okay. As long as you’re not, y’know…” He grimaced. “Gonna be weird about it.”

“No, I-” He tripped up again, opening and closing his mouth around air, chewing the words.

“I’m bisexual actually,” Lance continued. “Only realised since coming to uni.”

He realised he was still looking into Keith’s eyes.

Keith gave up his attempt. He smiled at Lance. “Yeah, I guessed as much.”

They both looked round to see Pidge and Hunk’s heads slightly turned. They hurriedly continued their conversation as soon as they realised Keith and Lance had stopped talking.

“So, anyway.” Lance cast about for a less awkward subject. “What’s the deal with Shiro? He was a hot mess at the till when Allura was there.”

Keith let out a loud laugh at this. “Oh, that’s a good story. Basically, Allura’s related to the CEO of the chain, so she took on the job while she was looking for a graduate role, and immediately took a bit of a shine to Shiro.” Keith motioned at the air. “I mean, just look at him.”

Lance’s eyes zeroed in on his face. Keith carried on, oblivious.

“But he was pretty adamant that he’s too old for her and that he can’t date the niece of the Big Boss, right?”

Lance found himself nodding in agreement, tipsily transfixed.

“Because he’s traditional like that. Anyway, Allura was furiously trying to ‘court’ him,” he mimed apostrophes in the air, “And it was an actual catastrophe. It ended with Shiro politely turning her down and then she got another job shortly after, but now every time he sees her, he blushes like a virginal sacrifice.” Keith laughed. “Quite funny, really.”

Lance chuckled. “That’s cute. Funny, I thought she’d be his type.”

Keith shrugged. “Me too. He’s a mystery, really.”

“How about you? How do you know him?”

They met eyes again. Keith’s fringe was falling into his eyes.

“Oh yeah, you picked up on that?” Keith nodded absently. “He’s related to one of my foster carers. He swung me this job when I was going through a rough patch. He’s a good guy.”

“Oh, I see.”

Lance didn’t know how to broach this without sounding intrusive. Instead he plucked the passionfruit out of his glass and licked the seeds out. He met Hunk’s gaze over the table, not seeing Keith watching him with his lips parted. Hunk mimed drinking, put a single finger up, and then pointed to the exit, his eyebrow up inquisitively. Lance gave him a thumbs up.

He’d best not have too much more anyway.

 

They walked as a group back to the tube station slowly, pottering a bit. Lance was lending a supporting elbow to Pidge, who kept tripping over.

“I shouldn’t have bought that last drink,” Hunk said guiltily.

“It’s fine,” said Lance, laughing mirthfully as Pidge bounced off his hip and nearly fell into a bin. “It’s funny.”

“Sh’up,” Pidge grumbled. They fell naturally behind as they focused on walking straight.

“You’re a mess,” Lance said fondly. He was reminded of his younger siblings.

“You’re a mess,” Pidge griped back, and gave him a surprisingly hard and accurate shove, nearly taking a flying dive into the ground.

“Well, that’s it,” sighed Lance, “I gotta do what I gotta do,” and scooped the kid up bridal style while they scowled and tried to jab their hands into his armpits.

“Oi, stop, I said- STOP THAT,” Lance howled and jiggled his cargo around.

“I’ll tell your boyfriend on you,” Pidge pouted.

“Hunk will support me.”

Pidge rolled their eyes. “No, the other one.”

Lance furrowed his brow. “Keith? Keith’s not my boyfriend.”

Pidge struggled to get down and Lance obliged, placing them neatly on the floor. “You sure?”

“Why are you the second person to insinuate that today,” Lance said hotly, guiding his passenger around a knot of people.

“Fags,” someone muttered from the group. Lance’s shoulders tensed.

“Yo, what the fuck?!” Pidge swore and made a tiny lunge towards them. Alarmed, Lance grabbed onto the hood of their jacket.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry about them.” He glowered at the group as they passed, checking to see if any of them were coming towards them.

“That’s not cool though,” Pidge argued.

“Nah, course it’s not. Still, can’t go fighting people twice your size,” Lance said reasonably.

“What did you just say!”

Lance pulled a fighting stance. “Your heard me, pint-size!”

“That’s it!”

 _“What_ are you doing,” yelled Hunk, turning around to see Pidge hanging off Lance’s torso like a feral monkey.

“Help!” Lance yelped.

“Oh my god, the pair of you.” Hunk rubbed his face. “Pidge, d’you know how to get home?”

An owlish blink. “I think so.”

Keith spoke up, looking strained as everyone turned towards him at once. “If you’re not North London, or anywhere like that, then I can take you in my car. If you want.”

Pidge adjusted their glasses and leaned heavily on Lance’s arm. “I’m right by the Vauxhall station.”

“Cool. I can take you home if you know the address then.”

Lance shook them off affectionately and said his goodbyes with Hunk.

“Lance,” Keith said, just as he was turning away. “Lift tomorrow?”

“Sounds good, man,” Lance called cheerfully over to him, catching for the briefest moment Keith’s small smile.

As they split, they both faintly heard Keith say, “If you throw up in my car, you can walk home,” and laughed.

 

*

 

It was a whole week later that the incident happened. 

Peace had returned to Zarko’s. Lance had found new ways to rib Keith (from the one moment he saw him trip over his own shoelaces), Shiro still found a way to look attractive despite the growing circles under his eyes, and new part time staff meant the weekend was looking promisingly open.

On Thursday afternoon, after the evening rush hour had slowed to a crawl, Lance was discreetly flicking coffee beans onto the floor under Keith’s feet. Every time one crunched under his shoe, his eyebrows beetled more.

“Where are these coming from?” he said exasperatedly.

Lance shrugged just as the door swung open. He righted himself from his slouch against the counter, and went to stand by the register.

“Hi, welcome to Zarko’s,” he said brightly as the two men approached, “What can I get for you?”

“Oi mate,” said the shorter of the two blokes, tapping his friend lightly with the back of his hand and ignoring Lance. “Ain’t that Bruiser?”

 Lance followed their gaze over his shoulder.

Keith had stood up from cleaning the remains of the coffee bean. He stared at the two across the counter.

The taller man broke out into a grin. “’Ey, Bruiser. Where’s your mark?”

"Bet he’s using girly shit to cover it up,” the other muttered.

“Girly shit, is it? You wearing foundation? You a fashion blogger now or something?” They laughed together.

Keith said nothing.

The taller man’s lip curled. “Too good to tell us your top tips, eh? I’ve got some acne scarring I wouldn’t mind covering up.” He slapped his cheeks. “Think you’d let me borrow your stuff again?”

Lance’s hands curled into fists. He didn’t know what they were talking about, but he knew he didn’t like their tone.

“Everything alright?” Shiro said blandly from behind them before he could say anything.

They both looked over him, stood auspiciously in the doorway, his muscled arms hanging by his side, the tattoo peeking out of one sleeve, and grumbled something. They gave their orders to Lance, who took them coldly. Keith faced the back the entire time he was making them.

Every now and again Lance would hear them mutter something rude under their breaths and snigger, but they were careful to keep it out of Shiro’s earshot. Lance slid their drinks over silently. His core was shaking with the effort of keeping his words to himself, but he felt like anything he could say would make it worse.

“Ite, catch you around Bruiser,” the taller one said, and they left, talking under their breaths.

“Do you mind if I go into the back, Shiro?” Keith said steadily.

“Sure.” Shiro moved out of the doorway. “Lance and I will close up.”

As the door swung closed, Lance hissed, “What the hell was that about?”

Shiro gave a slow, tired shrug. “You’ll need to ask him.”

Lance looked from his boss to the door and back. “How?”

Shiro gave him a long look before speaking. “Try not to let him be alone this evening. If you can.” He rinsed a rag under the tap and placed it in front of Lance. “Double time, before he leaves.”

“Keith?” Lance said tentatively into the storeroom not long later.

“Present.” The voice sounded muffled.

Lance popped his head around the corner. Keith was sitting on the floor, hugging his knees.

 “I was thinking of catching a movie tonight. I was just going to get some popcorn, if you wanted to join?”

Keith shrugged. “No thanks.”

“Not even to the co-op?” Lance pouted, for it seemed to do the trick on Keith whenever he didn’t want to make a particularly hard coffee.

“I’m just going to go home,” said Keith, unaffected.

“Oh.” Lance paused for a second. “Can I come?”

“What?” Keith said sharply, apparently broken from his reverie.

“Can I come? To your place?” Lance did his best to look doe-eyed.

Keith ran a hand through his fringe distractedly. “I…guess?”

Lance checked the time on his phone. “Okay, but now I’ve made myself want popcorn. Stay here.” He looked fiercely at Keith. “No te rajes. Don’t leave without me.”

 

He dashed out. Keith curled around himself again, and only looked up when Shiro walked in. He said nothing, but his expression was soft.

“I’m gonna wait for Lance in the car,” Keith muttered, and beat a quick escape.

 

“I thought you’d left!” Lance huffed as he threw himself into the passenger seat ten minutes later, his arm around a bulging carrier bag.

“I text you,” grumbled Keith, trying to peer into the bag.

“Oh, I got everything,” said Lance, watching him. “I didn’t know what you liked.”

Keith hummed vacantly in response, and rolled out of the carpark.

They drove in silence. Lance whistled tunelessly along to the music and drummed the dashboard lightly with his fingers, as if making pains not to push any of Keith’s buttons. Keith focused on the road, and not on the old hurting ache in his chest, which throbbed dully with the pain of reopening.

Lance looked around with interest as Keith pulled in under his building. “You live alone?”

Keith killed the engine. “Yeah.”

An evening alone with an upset, surly Keith, when Lance hadn’t spent a single moment past their drives to and from work alone with him. The prospect made him feel almost nervous.

Keith’s flat was entirely in darkness, and smelled like dust and day-old takeaway.

“I didn’t tidy exactly tidy for guests,” he mumbled, and tried to discreetly slide a few plates into the sink.

The apartment was on the small side. It might have seemed comfortable if there was more furniture, but the two seater sofa was threadbare and the table, he realised, was just a wooden palette propped up on breezeblocks and covered with a cloth. They both faced a small TV which stood on a table against the wall. A narrow bookcase held several paperbacks and a Nintendo Wii.

“Nice place,” Lance said jovially.

Keith hovered by the door to the kitchen. “I have a pizza?”

“Sounds good.” Lance threw himself onto the sofa and grunted a little as his tailbone smacked into the hard frame beneath the cushions. He tipped the contents of his carrier onto the makeshift table. Keith, apparently catching the glint of purple packaging through the kitchen doorway, darted forward. He grabbed a packet out of the hoard.

Lance stared at him. “Are you serious? Monster Munch? I bought those as a joke!”

Keith dashed away with his prize held against his chest, reminding Lance of an angry, dark-haired squirrel. He heard the faint sound of the packaging being opened, as if Keith was trying very hard to be quiet, and then a crunch.

“Oi! You’ll spoil your dinner!” Lance yelled.

He heard soft retreating footsteps and then, further away, another smaller crunch.

“Keith!” Lance called. There was no answer. He hauled himself off the sofa and peered into the pokey kitchen. A door at the end was half open; Lance could see the end of a bed through it. There was a sign hanging on the door handle that said ‘ _…and stay out._ ’

“Hey, Keith, your apartment is weird,” Lance said, walking into the bedroom and witnessing Keith sat on the floor sobbing into his packet of Monster Munch. “Oh god!” He clattered down to the floor next to his red-eyed colleague. “Keith, hey. Hey. Shush, shush, none of that now, come on.”

He stuck an arm awkwardly around the shorter boy and felt the faintest tinge of surprised when Keith leant into it for a moment. He looked down on the mop-haired head and felt a rush of affection. “What’s all this about?”

Keith smashed his sleeve against his face in a desperate attempt to clear the tears. His cheeks had gone blotchy.

“Fuck,” Keith hissed.

He lurched away from Lance, who stayed sitting patiently where he was.

“-said I wouldn’t cry,” came the muffled confession from where Keith had buried his face in the corner of his duvet. He smeared the tears off on it.

“I didn’t see anything,” Lance said innocently, appearing riveted on the visible corner of a sleeve sticking out from a top drawer.

There was a rustle from the corner, and a deep breath. Lance looked closer at the drawer.

 _Not a sleeve,_ he realised with a flush, _boxers._ He looked away. He cast about with his eyes, settling on a pair of pristine red converse. They looked barely used.

“So who were they?” Lance asked lightly.

He heard a snuffle.

“Old school friends.”

“Friends?”

 This time Keith’s voice sounded sharper. “No. I didn’t have…friends. You know what I mean.” A snotty grumble. “People who went to school.”

“Oh.” Lance considered his shoelaces. Then… “What did those guys mean about…your mark?”

“Yeah…that,” Keith muttered.

Lance looked over at him and saw that his cheeks were mosaicked from crying. His eyelashes were wet, and they looked dark and long. There was another uncomfortable few seconds of silence. Just as Lance was about to break it, Keith got up and stormed past him. He grabbed a packet of face wipes off the chest of drawers and swiped one angrily down his face. He scrubbed at his cheek.

“Keith, what-” Lance leapt gracefully to his feet and approached him cautiously. “You’re making your face red.”

“Ha!”

It was a bitter laugh, without a trace of humour. He passed the make-up wipe again and again over the right side of his face, and reached for another one. Lance watched mutely, seeing the purple mark appear as the make-up was stripped away. Keith cleaned his whole face off and lobbed the wipes into the bin.

“So yeah…” Keith mumbled, not looking at Lance.

“A birthmark?”

Keith flattened his fingers against it. “A port-wine stain.”

“Can I see?” Lance patted the ground in front of him encouragingly. “If that’s okay?”

Keith settled down, but left his fingers where they were. Lance looked around his room. There was a map of the world above the bed, the edges curling away from the blu-tac, and a globe-shaped night light on the bedside table.  
Lance pointed. “A bit of a theme going on in here.”

“I’d love to travel at some point.” Keith’s eyes roamed around his room with Lance’s. “I want to see Machu Picchu.”

“You strike me as a llama man,” Lance mused.

Keith scowled at him. “It’s one of the seven wonders of the world, you ingrate.”

Lance shrugged. “I would go for the llamas.” In Lance’s peripheral, he saw Keith slowly lower his arm. He tried to read the titles on some of the spines of the books on a shelf.

Keith gave a soft sigh and Lance chanced a look over.

The mark was oblong, starting under his eye and running down the side of his nose to darken the corner of his lip. It was a reddish purple, darker in the centre than the edges.

“I’ve had it since birth,” Keith said when Lance was quiet, almost defensively. “Shiro’s grandmother raised the money to have removal treatment.”

His fingers brushed over it.

“Obviously it didn’t take it off completely, it was too late for that, but…” His eyes widened as Lance pushed off the ground and leaned closer.

“It looks like a country.” Lance contemplated his cheek for a moment. “Here, come stand by the map.”

Keith stared at him as Lance clambered onto the bed and kneeled in between the pillows as if he were mad.

“Keith?” Lance looked over expectantly. “Come on, this could be like fate telling you to visit somewhere. Like… tea leaves.”

“Tea leaves,” Keith breathed incredulously, but obeyed his co-worker. He knelt next to him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the warmth of Lance’s leg.

“Turn your face…okay hold.”

He tried to keep still as Lance looked from his face to the map and back.

“This is stupid,” he grumbled, and was promptly shushed.

Lance skewered the map. “Brazil.”

Keith snorted. “Thank you, fortune teller I didn’t know I wanted or asked for.”

The taller boy shrugged. “Hey, I don’t make the birth mark rules. I’m just the messenger.”

He traced his long fingers over South America. Keith watched them absently.

“You could even pop over to Peru to see the llamas-”

 

“Crap!”

Lance whipped round as Keith dived off the bed with a strangled yell and dashed into the kitchen.

“The pizza!” he yelled.

 Pizza rescued, they both slumped into the sofa in the living room. Lance scarfed his piece without blowing on it and burnt the roof of his mouth. Keith distractedly channel surfed, his dangling piece of pizza threatening to drop a glob of cheese into his lap.  
“So those guys today?” Lance began slowly, unsure how the topic would go down.

Keith grunted to show he was listening.

“Well, they don’t know what they’re talking about. I think your mark is cool.”

Keith stroked his mottled cheek.

“I mean it,” Lance said, trying to read his silence. “It makes your eyes ‘pop’, y’know. Purple and grey is a winning combo.”

“Forgive me if I don’t become the poster boy for Dulux.”

Lance laughed, relieved at the attempt at a joke.

“Thanks though,” Keith said quietly.

“Well, thanks for showing me.” The TV chattered in the background between then. Keith had put on a re-run episode of Grand Designs, and Kevin McCloud was standing by a stack of tyres and looking perplexed.

“Who were they?” Lance asked.

Keith chewed slowly. “Boys from the secondary school I went to. They had it out for me the whole of year 9.”

“A difficult time for everyone if I remember,” Lance reflected.

“You’re telling me. I moved away about a year later.” Keith looked blank. “Different fosterer. My social worker thought it’d be best.”

Lance shook his head. “Kids are so cruel about anything they can see that is a bit different.”

Keith nodded grimly. “They bullied me for other stuff too.”

“Well, knobs will be knobs.” Lance snaffled another slice. “Se jodan.”

“Screw them?” Keith smiled.

“Basically.” Lance grinned back, glad he’d coaxed one out.

They watched TV for another hour, commenting on the weary-looking couple finishing their custom built house, and falling into a comfortable silence as one programme drifted into another. Lance checked his watch at about ten, and stretched his arms over his head. His joints popped satisfactorily.

“I’d better make a move.”

Keith looked dolefully about the apartment. The overhead light was off, and the right half of his face looked shadowed in the lamp-light. Lance wanted to touch his birthmark to see if it was the same texture as the rest of his face; it looked softer, more velvet, but he thought it would be a weird thing to ask.

“Yeah, I guess. You could stay, but I’m not giving up my bed.”

“Rude.”

That pulled another smile from Keith. He looked nice when he smiled.

“I must admit, I can’t be arsed to go catch the tube.” Lance leant back and put his feet on the ramshackle coffee table.

“I could try and pad the sofa some more.” Keith got up to rummage for pillows. “If you want.”

Lance rubbed his head. “If you don’t mind? It would be less of a pain.”

Keith nodded silently, disappearing into his bedroom in search of bedding.

One blanket cocoon later and Lance was yawning widely, his hair static and poking out from the spare duvet.

“Well, night,” Keith said, and just about heard the mumble in response.

Keith flicked the lamp off and the room was plunged into complete darkness. Lance curled under the blanket, tucking his toes under to escape the draft. The pillow smelled how Keith smelled; he hadn’t realised he’d come to recognise it. Fruity shampoo, muskier aftershave and coconut oil. Hunk loved coconut oil; Keith must use it on his face.

 Keith brushed his teeth slowly and retreated to bed. He paused before getting in, visualising Lance happily clambering on without any prompting, burrowing his knees inbetween the pillows, bending towards the map on the wall.

 _Wet dream material_ , he groaned internally, imagining him throwing a coy glance over his shoulder, dropping a sultry wink. _I will not jerk off with him next door._

Resolute in his decision, he punched his pillow into shape and threw himself onto his belly. He stretched over and flicked the globe lamp onto its dimmest setting.

His dream unwrapped around him, a hazy mash of heavy breathing and tanned skin and the smell of Lance. It was like he jinxed it. He dreamed that Lance gasped his name and leaned into his every touch, let his eyes flutter close and ground into Keith’s crotch and whimpered. He awoke barely an hour later with an erection and the sudden stab of shame.

Keith grit his teeth and listened for any sounds next door. Everything was quiet. He slipped his hand into his boxers and pulled himself off quickly, remembering Lance leaning in to look at his birthmark and imagining his lips approaching his lap. He climaxed with the distant feeling of guilt – it was one thing to jerk off over a crush, another to do it metres from the crush in question – then cleaned himself off, and rolled over with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JK Bowling is always my bowling nickname kekeke
> 
> "No te rajes" = cuban slang for "don't ditch the plan", I THINK I'm using in the right context  
> "se joban" = FUCK THEM


End file.
